


Means of Destruction

by spunker13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Baby? What baby?, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Cheating, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drug Abuse, Drug-Induced Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Freeform, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John Watson Being an Asshole, John is a Bit Not Good, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mostly canon compliant up until TAB, PTSD John, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Abuse, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Suicidal John, Suicidal Thoughts, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Trust Issues, Victor Trevor Being an Asshole, Violence, Work In Progress, john never really gets better, season 4 never happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 45,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9591395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunker13/pseuds/spunker13
Summary: The weight of John's gun in his palm was the only comforting thing he had left in his life. When he had met Sherlock Holmes, he had hoped that he would fill the hole in his chest, but life with the madman is never easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello :o so this is sort of S4 fix-it because really, but also, I don't really include anything from S4,  
>  so this is straight off-script freeform  
> There could be more tags to come as the story progresses.  
> Also, the chapters might be a tad short, but that's bc my attention span is like minuscule :)  
> Let me know what you think!

The bedsit was bland, off-white and grey in the dim light coming in through the window. John Watson, retired army doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, placed his pathetic amount of belongings onto the cot. He began to place them neatly in their designated places. At the bottom of his suitcase, his Sig Sauer was wrapped in cloth. The heavy weight was comforting in his hand. The calluses on his fingers lined up with the trigger, and his thumb grazed the hammer. There were so many memories in this pistol. He had drawn it close to his chest before checking corners, peered down its sights at enemies, pressed the muzzle under his chin. There was not much honor in being invalided home. The injury to his shoulder might not have been so bad if the infection had not taken. He had a fuzzy memory of the same nurses and doctors he used to work alongside with staring down at him with worry as he went in and out of a feverish consciousness. His shoulder wound could be hidden though; it was the cane he relied on that made his situation that much worse. The ache in his leg would worsen with the slightest weather change or if he stood or sat too long. People stared at him. His therapist had explained that it was all in his head, that his insecurities made it seem like everyone was looking at him when they weren’t, that his limp was psychosomatic, but it was a hard thought to push away.

He placed the gun in the top drawer of the side desk with the loose pens and paper. The warmth of the metal left him feeling cold when he slid the drawer shut. He took a seat on the small bed with clasped hands. How he had managed to get himself here was beyond him. John didn’t believe in a god, but he couldn’t help but feel that he was being punished for all the lives he had taken and all the lives he had failed to save. The room was quiet save for the noise outside the window, but the silence felt deafeningly loud, and he could feel the pull toward his gun again. It wasn’t the first time he had felt it. So many nights listening to the groans of agony from his fellow soldiers in the infirmary made him wish that he could taste the gunpowder and oil from the muzzle. He had wondered if the death would be instant, or how much blood would be splattered across the wall. Of course, he knew the answers to those questions. He had seen it countless times. Bullets ripping through the air to pierce his friends through their foreheads. John had run over immediately, dodging enemy fire, to discover that they were already dead, but in that hospital bed, he thought that maybe it would be different for him. He knew otherwise. He was a doctor after all, but the thought remained until he was sent to London.

John had hardly noticed his quickening breaths and counted to ten forward and backwards until his breaths had returned to normal. He couldn’t stomach sitting there anymore, so he gathered his cane and jacket and left for a walk.


	2. Chapter 2

It was definitely such a strange meeting, John thought to himself. How odd that he would be walking in Russell Square Gardens the same time that his old mate, Mike Stamford, was taking a break there. Mike had always been a cheery fellow, and it was a relief to see that not everything had changed since he’d been gone. John had to repeatedly tighten his hand around his cup of coffee to keep it from shaking. Mike hadn’t changed, but he could see how he had changed in Mike’s eyes.

_“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”_

_“I got shot.”_

The two men had smiled awkwardly at each other, the sympathy in Mike’s eyes obvious despite the crinkles around them. In the awkward moments between them, when Mike caught the glazed over look on his old friend’s eyes, John could see the battlefield in front of him. The laughing children and the old couples were blasted into enemy fire and blood stained sand. Orders were muffled by the ringing in his ear. The sharp pain of the bullet wound ran up his neck.

Mike was talking about a flatshare or something when John was pulled from his thoughts. The park was just as it was before.

“Come on – who’d want me for a flatmate?” John could hardly imagine himself living with another person. People might fear the invalided soldier with the stern mouth and sandblasted eyes. Mike chuckled to himself.

“What?”

Mike took a sip of his coffee. “Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John gently furrowed his brow. “Who was the first?”

When John had settled into his bedsit this morning, he had no idea that he would be returning to St. Bart’s after years to see about a flatshare. Mike hadn’t given him any details about who they were going to see, but as John handed the slim stranger with the well-tailored suit and dark curls his phone, he supposed there should have been some sort of introduction before this moment.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Taken aback, “Sorry?” John said.

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” He briefly met John’s eyes before turning back to the phone. John glanced at Mike for a second who only gave him a knowing smile.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?”

Before John could think of something else to say, a young woman walked in with a cup of coffee.

“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He handed John his phone. “What happened to the lipstick?”

The woman, Molly, smiled awkwardly at him. “It wasn’t working for me.”

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.” He returned to his spot behind the station.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” John can spot the fakeness in that smile a mile away.

“Oh, you ... you told him about me,” he asked Mike.

“Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?”

The man reached for his dark coat. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?

He picked up his mobile, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?

The dark haired stranger turned back from the door and steps into John’s personal space. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?” John could hardly believe it as he glanced at Mike, who only smiled at the other man. Was this man thick in the head? He faced him again, trying not to let his disbelief be too obvious.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

For a short moment, the stranger only stared at him, but it felt like John was standing there naked. Those piercing eyes dissecting him in mere seconds before he spoke again.

“I know you’re an Army doctor, and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” John looks down at his leg and cane, readjusting his feet.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He opened the door again, halfway out. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” And just like that, with a wink and a goodbye to Mike, he was gone.

When John faces his friend again, Mike could only smile. “Yeah. He’s always like that.”

Back at his bedsit, John’s thoughts buzzed. He couldn’t seem to get that brilliant stare out of his head. He had felt like he was looking down the barrel of a gun and at any moment it could fire. John had looked up the strange man, Sherlock Holmes- what a public school kind of name- and was impressed to find his website, the Science of Deduction. There was no picture up like John had on his blog, but he could still picture that perfect cupid’s bow spouting off deductions like a machine gun. He spoke so fast and fluidly like the thoughts were coming out straight from his brain, unfiltered and raw, but it wasn’t off-putting. John rather liked it. Sherlock was so brilliant, and the thought of seeing him again tomorrow made his gut feel warm. Usually by the evenings, he has felt the call of his sidearm, could taste the oil and metal in his mouth. He had done it once, pressed his Sig into his tongue. His heart had jumped. It was the most he had felt since being out on the battlefield, but hearing Sherlock be so candid was so refreshing and he craved more of it. In that moment, he was laid out bare under Sherlock’s sharp gaze, and it was so-

Freeing.

To not have to explain where he had been or what he had done or who he used to be was a relief. That beautiful man with the elegant violinist fingers and the calculating stare had asked John to come look at a flat with him tomorrow.

John had difficulty falling asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he jerked awake at the sight of the hot Afghanistan sun. He gritted his teeth and hoped that exhaustion would take over.


	3. Chapter 3

There was something magical in their handshake when they had met outside 221B that next day. He had never met a more electric man. Sherlock buzzed with contained energy, and it wasn’t until he had moved in with him that he realized that this contained man was all a ruse: he was a lightning bolt in the flat and on cases.

Sherlock radiated arrogant strength despite his thin body, but he knew that the man was a lithe predator under all that coat. John had treated stab wounds and stitched Sherlock enough to know what that lean muscle felt like under his fingers. How he craved to know how his skin felt when it was hot with arousal, writhing under his hands.

John smirked to himself in bed.

_“I looked you up on the internet last night.”_

_“Anything interesting?”_

_“Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”_

_Sherlock smiles proudly. “What did you think?” John threw him a look. You have got to be kidding me._

_“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”_

_“Yes. and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”_

_“How?”_

_Sherlock glanced away with a wry smile._

            John had no idea he would be standing there, watching Sherlock’s fingers tremble with a capsule pinched between them. He had no idea that he would pull the trigger on his Sig at the cabbie that was threatening Sherlock. He had no idea that he would be so smitten with the git in the dark greatcoat so suddenly. John hurried out of Roland-Kerr College. The last thing he needed was to get arrested.

            He hadn’t aimed his gun at someone other than himself in a while, and the fact that he was doing it to protect Sherlock made that trigger that much easier to pull. He watched as Detective Inspector Lestrade approached Sherlock about what had happened. He had a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and John could not help but snap a faraway picture of the brooding man.

The DI listened to Sherlock spout off his observations at lightning speed. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman- a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service.” Sherlock glances around the area and sees John watching him from behind the police tape.

“And nerves of steel...” Sherlock trailed off. Suddenly, he could picture John standing with his gun raised, not an ounce of trepidation as he steadied himself and fired. John stared back innocently.

That was the beginning of John’s new life.

Case after case, running after suspects, Sherlock’s coat flapping behind him, he had never felt so alive. Some days were more difficult than the others; the lows after a case outlasted the highs. While Sherlock slept after a case, John laid in bed, wrapped in his sheets, and stared at the side wall for hours on end until he went downstairs to scald his tongue on tea. That’s when his Sig’s call would gain strength. He would stare at the bedside drawer that held it from his doorway. It had a life of its own.

Sherlock had caught him countless times standing in the doorway.

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Thinking,”_ John would say _._ Every time, Sherlock would scoff, but turn away with a worried quirk of his mouth.

When John had stepped in front of Sherlock at the pool, Sherlock’s heart sank. How had he not deduced that it was John behind everything? He must’ve missed something. He had been letting his attachment to the army doctor get in the way. John’s heart beat in his throat. He hoped that Sherlock would find a way out of this, out of the Semtex vest. It felt as if his heart would set it off it beat so hard.

Then Sherlock had pulled out a pistol, and John fell horrendously in love with the madman. That brilliant arse was not going down without a fight.

“ _I’ll burn the_ heart _out of you_.” Moriarty had snarled.

“ _I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one_.”

“ _But we both know that’s not quite true_.” Sherlock fought the urge to glance at John, but judging from Moriarty’s smirk, he made it easy for him.

The thought of losing Sherlock tortured John daily. Instead of the Afghanistan sands, he’d dream of thousands of red sights on Sherlock’s bloodied corpse. John had to wade through pools of rifle shells just to find Moriarty lying in the same spot with Sherlock’s carved off face stapled to his, toothy grin spread ear to ear.

He would wake drenched in sweat and tears. Those nights he would listen to the gentle glass _clink_ with Sherlock experimenting downstairs or the frustrated pacing. He would sit in the middle of his bed and listen for hours until he fell back asleep or Sherlock disappeared into his Mind Palace.

The morning after a particularly terrible nightmare, John had called in sick to work for the third day and padded downstairs, unshaven and undressed. Sherlock sat staring at John’s chair sipping tea dressed spectacularly as usual.

“I’ve made you some tea,” Sherlock stated. John sat down silently in his chair. He stared into the cup and ran his pinky finger around the rim. Sherlock eyed his disheveled person. John took a sip after several silent minutes. Sherlock held his cup to his lips.

“I see that you’ve taken another day off today,” he spoke into his cup. “Are we going to be expecting unemployment benefits soon?” John switched his cup to his other hand since he couldn’t bring it to his mouth without it trembling.

 _I thought we were rid of that,_ Sherlock thought to himself and filed that fact away in a room that looked exactly like 221B in his Mind Palace. Sherlock also noted the purple-red circles under his eyes. He was sure that they were not as dark as yesterday, but John had hardly exited his room the last couple of days. John stared at the bottom corner of Sherlock’s chair; he couldn’t bear to look at Sherlock’s face. He could still smell the blood and gunpowder.

 _“You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it,”_ is what Sherlock had told him when they first met, but this was no war he had ever fought. This was mental torture. There was nothing he could do in the real world that would stop what was going on in his head.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. John met Sherlock’s concerned gaze. “I am not particularly well versed in asking about the welfare of my friends, but I have noticed that you do not seem well. My blogger has to be at his best.”

 _My blogger_ , John repeated to himself.

“I am perfectly fine,” John lied.

“I know your nightmares have been occurring more frequently.”

“Stop deducing me, Sherlock,” John threatened through gritted teeth.

“You’ve been sleeping day and night, and judging by the state of your dress,”

“Enough!” John hurled the cup. It shattered against the wall in hundreds of ceramic chunks and slivers. Hot tea splattered across the bookshelves and back onto John’s skin. Sherlock remained still in his seat. It was the most energy he had gotten out of John this week. John’s hands shook; tears lingered at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock sifted through his data, just something that would help in this situation, but there was nothing that would come across as genuine. The last thing he wanted to do was harm their friendship because of his lack of “people skills.” John would have said it was just common decency, but Sherlock found that in that moment, he had nothing that he hadn’t already used for a case. John would see through his ruse immediately.

Sherlock didn’t try to move as John threw the side table into the kitchen. He ripped the letter opener from the mantle and stabbed it into the wall over and over. Sherlock heard a pair of kitten heels climb the stairs and quickly intercepted Mrs. Hudson before she could enter the flat.

“What is happening, Sherlock? Are you okay? John?” She attempted to step around Sherlock. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’m afraid John is just frustrated, but return to your biscuits, Mrs. Hudson. I will handle it.” She stared at Sherlock. The sound of fabric tearing and angry sobs filled the flat as John slashed his armchair. “Please,” he whispered. Mrs. Hudson reluctantly stepped back onto the steps and rushed down. Sherlock turned back into the sitting room.

John panted in front of the fireplace, robe in tatters along with the stuffing of his chair, trembling in his boxers and tee. From behind, John looked small. Sherlock would never describe the man that way normally, but with his shoulders slumped and quivering, he looked almost fragile.

Sherlock approached cautiously. He knew that John would not strike out at him, but John never proved to be very predictable.

John’s skin felt numb. The only thing he felt was the sharp edges of the letter opener cutting into his palm. Shreds of wallpaper, fabric, and stuffing clung to the soles of his bare feet.

“John.” Sherlock’s baritone reverberated through his spine. Tears sprung back to his eyes. He squeezed them shut.

He hadn’t felt the shift in the air or the light breath against his hair, but Sherlock was there, taking his left hand in his and carefully taking the letter opener from his now pliant hand. He gently urged John to sit on the couch while he got their med kit from the bathroom. When he returned, John was staring at his open palm with glazed eyes. John was still waiting for the sting, but it never came. The bloody lines cut through the natural paths on his palm. All he saw was the blood from Mrs. Hudson’s face where the American agent had struck her. He sat in silence while Sherlock cleaned and bandaged his hand. Sherlock glanced at him, but John’s eyes were still faraway. When he finished, they sat there quietly. It was only when John’s breathing grew heavy and slow that Sherlock draped an afghan over his sleeping body.

Sherlock had worried that he didn’t get enough sleeping aid in his tea.


	4. Chapter 4

When John woke, his back ached and his hand burned.

            The flat was cleaner than he last remembered and his armchair was gone. He blinked the haziness out of his eyes and stood. Across from him, the wall around the mantelpiece had patches of wallpaper missing. John felt exhausted as he walked over to investigate. He traced the thin holes in the wall. The letter opener, normally piercing several letters to the mantel, was lying at the edge. The memory hit him like a bullet to the head and shame washed over him.

            He had let the frustration get the better of him and took it out on the flat all in front of Sherlock. Sherlock must’ve thought, _How pedestrian of him_. He hadn’t stepped in to stop him, just let John rampage. He could remember how gentle Sherlock’s hands were while he bandaged his palm. Sherlock wasn’t frightened by him. He had cared for him as John did when he had a close one with a suspect or jumped a wire fence. Tears prickled at his eyes again.

            _This is pathetic,_ he thought to himself. Frustration rising to the surface once again, he ran his hands through his mussed hair and pulled roughly. His nerves screamed. He let go and stared at the clumps of hair in his palms.

            He could feel his own head fluctuate between numbness and a ghostly grating. John didn’t know which was worse- not feeling anything at all or feeling every signal scratch against the inside of his skull. It was almost like razors rattled in his head, not hard enough to cause much damage but enough to nick and itch. John sighed and went upstairs to put on a pair of decently cleans jeans and his trainers without socks on. He grabbed his jacket on his way out.

            He opened the front door and was met with Sherlock and two movers holding John’s chair, or one that looked exactly like his old one.

“I took it upon myself to replace your chair.” Sherlock unwrapped his scarf, revealing that beautifully pale throat. John looked between him and the chair.

“I hope it is not an issue,”

“I appreciate it.” He moved over to let the movers bring in the chair. Sherlock fidgeted with his scarf.

“Would you care for some company?” John stared at the other man. Sherlock seemed sincere as he watched his face through his dark lashes.

“I’m going for a walk. Won’t you be bored?”

“With you,” Sherlock said confidently. “Never.” When John didn’t say anything, Sherlock flattened his lips and bobbed his side to side. “Maybe I’ll bring some cold case files along.”

Once the movers had left, Sherlock and John made their way toward Regency park. John eyed the bench where he had sat with Stamford years ago. They had both been quiet the entire time, Sherlock stealing glances at John to see if there were any changes in John’s demeanor; but no, his military stance remained, out of habit Sherlock was sure, and his stoic face didn’t hint at anything. If Sherlock had not known the natural light in John’s blue eyes, he might have just thought that John had taken on the persona of The Army Invalid, but this vacant stare was new, and it troubled him. He was unsure how to go about it. Sherlock had never been bothered by a change in someone’s personality.

But then again, he had never known someone like he knew John. There was Mycroft, but that was purely out of blood relation and not something he would have been willing to develop if not for that minor fact. He observed John while he stared at the birds.

John was an amazing man, one of the highest compliments Sherlock could possibly ever give another person. He was brilliant and not because he held a medical degree. Sherlock’s hands still shook from years of drug use, whereas John’s were solid and unsullied by needles and pipes. He held a gun steadily like it was an extension of himself, stitched his own wounds without anesthetic, and could cut off suspects mid-chase without Sherlock having to direct him to do so. Sherlock had met a lot of average and unmemorable people, but John was danger dressed in woolen jumpers, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This unassuming man managed to make Sherlock question whether caring really wasn’t an advantage, because when John was by his side, he was the Great Detective. It was John who made the rest of the world see Sherlock’s brilliance, and even though he teased his blog numerous times, John was the reason why he hadn’t shot out every wall at the flat.

He was the reason why cocaine wasn’t so tempting anymore.

John’s radiance, his goodness, his ferocity was plenty intoxicating.

To see it being snuffed out by his own hands made Sherlock’s throat dry. Whatever it was that was afflicting his friend, he had to do something about it, because it was destroying him. He noticed the slight splotchy red skin on John’s head where his hair had been ripped out when he had turned to watch the birds fly away when a biker rode past. Anger bubbled in Sherlock’s chest. How could someone so perfect do that to himself?

“Do you believe in life after death?”

The anger fled his body, replaced by curiosity.

“There are a lot of romantic fantasies regarding the afterlife,” Sherlock began.

“That’s not what I asked.”

John was facing him now, lower lip worried enough for blood to be drawn.

“A traditional upbringing suggests that I should, but there is not enough empirical data to make me believe in such nonsense, so no.”

John didn’t say anything to that, just turned back around and walked. He had hoped that Sherlock would say yes, just so he could imagine meeting up with him in the afterlife, doing and saying all the things he wanted to now, but can’t find the courage or energy to do. Sherlock stacked his case files and placed them under his arm.

They had stopped to eat at their regular Indian restaurant. The staff was excited to see them in person after delivering so many takeaway orders in the past couple of years. It was the first time since knowing John that Sherlock had eaten more than him. John had prodded his tandoori chicken until the server came to see if there was anything wrong.

“I’m just not as hungry as I thought I was,” he sighed. They took all of John’s food back home with them. John immediately went upstairs to his bedroom, not bothering with his jacket. Sherlock went back downstairs and knocked on 221A. Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

“Sherlock,” she cooed. “I’m so glad you came by. I have been wanting to speak with you.”

Mrs. Hudson placed tea and biscuits on the table while Sherlock removed his coat. “I hope you’re here to explain what it was that was going on upstairs.” Mrs. Hudson had made for a good friend and even better confidant.

“It is proving to be quite difficult, I’m afraid. Whatever it is that is going on with John, it is definitely not my area.”

“I’ve not seen him enough lately to tell you what I think,” she blew on her tea. “But it has never struck me that John would be the destructive kind of angry.”

“He isn’t. John is more quiet about his anger. Outbursts are few and far in between.”

“But today doesn’t seem to surprise you,”

“He has been,” Sherlock broke a biscuit in half, “different these last few weeks. His actions today were interesting to say the least, but I had been expecting something to rise from him.”

“Sherlock, I would say he is depressed.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “By what? What could he possibly find depressing?”

“I am sure he has good examples.”

“Well, I must ask him what those examples might be.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“Don’t do that Sherlock. If this is the case, he is suffering something he might be able to get a handle on. The poor man suffers from PTSD already. Imagine if you start digging into his thoughts. He will resent you. A woman at my Tuesday bingo night has a son with depression, and it’s just terrible.”

They sat in silence while Sherlock mulled over what Mrs. Hudson had said. He went through the files he had on depression and like mental illnesses, but most of his data involved prescription drug names.

“Has he tried to hurt himself?”

“He cut his hand with a letter opener.”

“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson sighed sadly.

“It wasn’t deep enough to require stitches, but I get the sense that he wasn’t aware he was doing it.”

“Just be sure you keep an eye on him.”

Sherlock thought back to the times he had caught John standing in his room staring blankly at the drawer that held his gun. John had simply said that he was thinking, but Sherlock thought otherwise. He didn’t mention this fact to Mrs. Hudson. She didn’t need to worry about one day going up to their flat and wondering if she was going to find John with the back of his head blown off and blood splattered across her walls. He could imagine himself holding John’s limp body in his lap, blood soaking his clothes and the rug under them, tears running down his cheeks.

Sherlock quickly threw away that image.

What he needed to do was keep John busy enough that he would be too tired to even think about his gun when he came home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching Sherlock take his plunge is a thought John never could erase, nor did he try to.

John was not scared of many things; he had been to war after all. He was afraid of becoming like his sister, his father, and so many Watsons before him; losing Sherlock; and James Moriarty. It wasn’t the first time there was a target on John’s head, but this time, it wasn’t the thought of him dying that bother him, it was what was going to happen to Sherlock after he was gone. Would he delete him from memory like all the other information Sherlock found useless, or would he mourn the loss of his only friend? John didn’t know which he thought was worse.

That night at the pool when the two madmen squared off, John swore he could see the similarities. If Sherlock ever wanted to, he could be just as malicious. Sherlock didn’t believe in angels or demons or whatnot, and John wasn’t sure he did either, but John swears that there must be a higher power that created Sherlock to combat Moriarty. What else could it be? To have these two men exist together has to be more than just coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy.

Moriarty had the board set and the pieces where he wanted them. John was beyond irritated that Sherlock played along. The obsession with Moriarty was unbelievable- all because he was _interesting_. They were evenly matched, and Sherlock loved it.

 _What a perfect couple_ , John thought bitterly in bed one night.

He knew that there had to be an end to their fun, but he didn’t think it would be so soon.

John fumbles with his ringing mobile as he hurries out the cab. All he could think about was Sherlock. The static in his head died, replaced by Sherlock’s name repeated over and over like a cult chant.

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.” Sherlock’s voice sounded off.

“No, I’m coming in.”

“Just do as I ask. Please.”

The frantic tone in his voice made John turn. “Where?”

“Stop there,” he said urgently.

John stopped. “Sherlock?

“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”

John’s heart sank. Dread washed over him. “Oh God.”

“I,” Sherlock stuttered, “I- I can’t come down, so we’ll, we’ll just have to do it like this.

“What’s going on?”

“An apology. It’s all true.”

“Wh-what?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.” Sherlock’s head swam. It was so difficult to look at him, to see the fear contort his sun kissed face into confusion and pain. He glanced away to swallow hard against the rising sob in his throat. Moriarty’s cooling body grinned at the sky.

“Why are you saying this?”

Sherlock looked toward him again, his voice cracking, “I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock,”

“The newspapers were right all along.” Sherlock’s eyes filled, and he couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice. His heart was quickening. He thought he’d might throw up. “I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.” Sherlock laughed as he looks down at his friend. A tear dripped from his chin. He had lost his chance with John. He had lost the chance to hear those soft endearments whispered into his ear in the early hours of the morning while they lazed in a shared bed. Sherlock could almost see the sunlight streaming in through the window and catching on John’s eyelashes.

“I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

John shook his head. “No. All right, stop it now.” He started to walk toward the entrance, but Sherlock’s pleas stopped him once again.

“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”

“All right.” Sherlock’s breaths came out quickly, his outstretched hand trembling toward his friend.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?”

“This phone call – it’s, er, it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?” John asks shakily after realizing the depth of Sherlock’s words.

“Goodbye, John.”

John shook his head. The world swirled around his head. Sherlock’s form was dark and blurry through the tears threatening to spill over. “No. Don’t.”

Sherlock gazed down at John, hoping that in that final look, he might see the adoration in his eyes. He lowered his arm, dropped the phone onto the roof, and stared ahead of himself. He didn’t think he could see John’s face when he did it. There would be no way he could take the step while looking at him; he would never get John’s horrified face out of his head.

John lowered his phone. “No. SHERLOCK!”

The image of his pale face covered in blood never left him. When he closed his eyes, the darkness was drenched in blood. John spent days without sleep; as soon as he’d shut his eyes, the sound of Sherlock’s skull hitting the pavement woke him up. He would spend the next few hours telling himself that he didn’t hear it. He couldn’t have known what it sounded like. The only time he would fall asleep was when he was on the tube or the bus, but even then he’d jerk awake when it felt like he was the one plummeting off St. Bart’s. The others tried to keep in touch with him, Molly and Lestrade visiting him on occasion, but John could see the pain in their eyes when they’d look at Sherlock’s chair. John had stopped spending time in the sitting room. The very flat reeked with Sherlock’s scent, and there was only so much he could take before he felt like he was suffocating in it. Mrs. Hudson would bring him biscuits and teas, but she’d return the next day to find them untouched by his chair. John had spent an entire day sobbing in the corner of his room when she had brought two cups. He could hear Sherlock in his head, calling him an idiot or telling him something was wrong in that beautiful baritone. Those were the better days where he could smile a little at the thought of Sherlock’s presence being so grand that it stuck with him even after death.

But those days were rare. Every waking moment, John swore he thought he saw Sherlock. Every tall dark haired man caught his eye and made his heart race. He would accidently order two takeaway meals, and save Sherlock’s favorite. Sitting at the microscope, he could almost feel Sherlock leaning over his shoulder and adjusting the knobs. After a while, John stopped going into the kitchen too, settling for teas and coffees from various cafés and Speedy’s next door.

He had had a vivid dream one night, of Sherlock’s heaving chest pressed against his own while they hid from a suspect with a gun, wedged in between a tight alley. John had been surprised to see a cat slink between their feet. Sherlock had not stopped staring at him, and the proximity to him was making him sweaty around the collar. Sherlock raised his palm to his chest, tapping his index finger along with his heartbeat. John faced him. He smelled like tea and stolen cigarettes, and it was the most glorious smell he could experience. It was inherently Sherlock. He had pressed his lips to John’s ear.

“The battle’s not yet won, John. Wait for me,”

John had woken up entangled in his sweat soaked sheets. He covered his ear where the words buzzed. He reached for the glass of stale whiskey and drank it whole. It took him almost a year to realize that Sherlock was never coming back. John could no longer wait for a man that would make him suffer for so long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mary becoming part of John's life, he recalls the men who were there for him before she was.

When John had met Mary, he was hardly the man he used to be before Sherlock’s death. He had changed after the war, but now, he was nothing without the detective. His permanent scowl made his patients uneasy, and when the practice had threatened to let him go, he disappeared into a three-day drunken haze. He had spent so many years fighting the vice that had taken hold of his family, but how could he fight any more when there was nothing to live for?

Mary was kind with a quick tongue. It almost reminded him of Sherlock.

Minus the kind part.

She had helped him lay off the booze and alleviated some of his sadness, but there was only so much she could do to patch up a broken man.

John thought he loved her, and when he had readied himself for his proposal at The Landmark Hotel, he thought it was the best thing to do: make an honest man of himself and put the past behind him no matter how much of him he would lose.

He had been ready, but the universe had decided against it.

_“Well, short version: not dead.”_

The many nights he had spent awake in fear that he would close his eyes and see that stare had all come crashing down. The earth fell sideways, and it was John who had been falling. Sherlock had been saying words, but all he could think was “two years.” He had mourned for two years; thought about jumping after Sherlock for two years; pressed the barrel of his Sig to his temple for two years, and yet, here he was, making light of everything in that socially awkward way of his.

How could he hate a man he loved so much?

John had spent many days thinking about dropping by 221B, and it rubbed him raw to know that Mary liked him. He should be happy that his wife likes his best friend, but Sherlock was his alone. Sherlock didn’t need anyone to like him except for John. He knew that it was a bit Not Good of him to be so possessive of a man he never really had, but still, wasn’t Sherlock mostly his? When he and Mary slept together, and she kissed his neck, he could never manage to stop himself from imagining that it was Sherlock on top of him, all sharp angles and lean muscle grinding on top of him. He would dream about Sherlock’s lips, that delectable cupid’s bow on his mouth or on other places. Mary became concerned with how many trips to the bathroom he would make during the night, but he reassured her that he had just been drinking more water since he started cycling to work.

The wedding had been brutal for the both of them, John was sure. He tried his best to make it seem like he was happy to be tying the knot with Mary, but Sherlock giving his best man’s speech made it feel like they were getting married instead, and his heart ached for it. Sherlock would make for a striking husband, but as Mary held his hand, he was only reminded that he would never be the one standing at the altar with him. There Sherlock was though, making someone else’s wedding day about himself with a murder. John was grateful that he had saved James Sholto’s life.

He was his first love after all.                 

John’s youth had been pretty _curious_ , he’d say, but when his sister came out, his family had not received it all that well. How would they have reacted if their veteran son had come out as being interested in both men and women? He kept his relationships with men mostly quiet, and when he went away to Afghanistan, he didn’t expect to meet a man like Sholto. He was incredibly stoic and soft-spoken despite his profession. He and John fit so well together, but they knew that it wasn’t going to be anything long-lasting. There was no room for relationships in war.

Then there was Sherlock, who brought the war to him.

John spent most of his wedding watching Sherlock from his peripheral as he gazed into his new wife’s eyes. God how he wished it were those beautiful multi-colored eyes he was looking into. The violin piece he had composed for them said all the things he never did. John’s heart squeezed at the end, and all he wanted to do was embrace that brilliant madman.

His heart sunk when Sherlock revealed that Mary was pregnant. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. The knot in his throat almost choked him. He tried his best to look happy, but Sherlock looked so incredibly sad. It was a slight flash, but they looked at each other like it was going to be the last. He and Mary had danced away, but John couldn’t get his face out of his head.

_The two practiced their steps slowly. John’s feet were more hesitant than Sherlock’s. The music came to a stop, their hands still clasped together._

_“You’ve certainly improved since you began,” Sherlock rumbled. John was thankful for the closed door during their dance lessons._

_“Well, I did have a brilliant teacher.” Sherlock turned his head to hide his growing smile. John’s stomach twisted, and all he wanted to do was see that face. John reached up, fingers just touching Sherlock’s chin when the other man faced him again. They both held their breath. The drapes flowed in the soft breeze._

_“You’re brilliant at most things,” John whispered. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. The other man froze. All his deductions and brilliance couldn’t have prepared him for that moment. John hoped and prayed to any god that could hear him that Sherlock would reciprocate, and he was starting to second-guess his act of courage. He started to pull away, but Sherlock’s hands slid up to his neck and brought him back. John kissed into his mouth, gently opening Sherlock’s lips with his tongue. He tasted like cigarettes and toothpaste._

_A gust blew papers off their stacks and Sherlock’s curls into John’s face. The two men paused, breathing heavily into each other’s mouths._

_“John,” Sherlock began. John shook his head._

_“This will be something we will always share,” John whispered. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek, and turned to leave, grazing Sherlock’s fingers as he left._

_Sherlock could feel the warm tingle left on his lips. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes._

_It would be the closest he’d ever get to touching John. No more casual touches. Their hands would never be handcuffed again. Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror. How had he become such an emotional man? He had spent so many years locking his emotions in the darkest rooms of his mind palace, but with John being around more, his beacon of light, those rooms were well lit now and their contents forced themselves out._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John may have gone to war, but Sherlock has been in a different kind of battle and has the scars to prove it.

John’s pregnant wife was at home while he was here. Sherlock played the violin at the window. Should he feel bad that he wasn’t at home rubbing Mary’s feet? Probably.

But he didn’t.

John admired Sherlock’s perfect form haloed by the sunlight. He continued to play even with John’s presence making his skin prickle. Sherlock could feel the other man approaching. He tried his best to seem engrossed in his own music, but John wrapped his arms around his torso, and the bow screeched across the strings. John smiled into the middle of Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock held the violin and bow loosely in his hands, shivering into John’s kisses. The man was his ultimate weakness, but after last night, he remembered exactly why he pushed so many people away. As John’s hands slid down to his belt, Sherlock twisted out his arms and stood tall by the coffee table.

“You should return to Mary,” he whispered.

John frowned. “I came to apologize.”

“And I’ve yet to hear one.” John opened his mouth to speak again, when Sherlock spoke over him. “I have reached my limit when arguing about my leave. I cannot possibly explain why I left those years ago anymore.”

“I was just saying that if you hadn’t left, we wouldn’t have to do this,”

“What? Rut against each other behind your pregnant wife’s back?”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“I have spent the last couple of years paying for it,” Sherlock spat. “You have yet to understand the full weight of what I had done after all this time. You expect it to be swept under the rug and be forgotten, but it will always sit here in this room.”

“You did it to save yourself.” John growled.

Sherlock shoved John back. It was rare that he lost control of his emotions so quickly. John had not expected it and stumbled back into the desk.

“I did it for you,” Sherlock yelled. The heat on his cheekbones flared. “If I had not done it, they would have shot everyone I held dear to me. That is why I did it. I had to make sure there would be no one left to hurt you.” Sherlock panted.

He took a slow breath. “I spent hours in my mind palace reliving the moments between us, chasing down criminals in wet alleyways, eating takeaway in the late hours covered in dirt and sweat. The times I could manage to sleep, I would dream of your anxious footsteps upstairs and the way your hand stilled when you held your gun. As much as I wanted to come home, I needed to make sure Moriarty’s web had been dismantled.”

John reached his hand out for the other man, but Sherlock stepped away. “Don’t think you’re the only one who has suffered from battle.”

They stood in silence, Sherlock finally breathing normally again. John began unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock watched him curiously. He lifted his white undershirt over his head and threw it into Sherlock’s chair. His healed bullet wound was pink compared to the rest of his body. Sherlock admired his only major wound. John had always been more careful.

“Show me the sort of battle you have seen.” Sherlock’s heart sank. No one had seen them yet. He could hardly look at them in the mirror. He would be reminded of them when the damaged nerves would twinge, but he tried to his best to keep them hidden, not because of how they looked, but because they reminded him of the man he had become in those two years, savage and ruthless.

Sherlock slid the buttons out and let the shirt slip to the floor. His heart hammered against his ribcage. John stared at his front, eyes grazing over the familiar stab wounds and bullet grazes he had stitched up himself. Sherlock could tell there were questions forming in his head.

He lowered his head and turned.

The sharp inhale John took had Sherlock’s heart skip. John stepped closer, fingers hovering over his back.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “I am so sorry. I am such an idiot.” He pressed his palm to Sherlock’s warm skin. “You shouldn’t have gone through this alone,” he said over his flesh.

Sherlock’s throat tightened. He tried to escape into his head, but John’s touch yanked him back. He couldn’t leave him alone to swallow what he had seen. He would never leave him.

Not again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John visits Sherlock more often after being shot, he considers his worth and what it means to those around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide, suicidal thoughts

When Mary had shot him, John could hardly see through the red in his eyes. The woman he had loves was a liar, an assassin. She had added another scar to Sherlock’s body, and he would never forgive her. It was because of him that he was alive. His pregnant wife had managed to shoot his best friend. Regular soon-to-be mothers just had back problems and morning sickness, but she was no regular woman.

John spent more of his time at 221B while Sherlock healed. He was certain that it was because of his worry for Sherlock and not because of his fear of Mary. Because really, he was a soldier after all. If he thought Mary posed a real threat to him, he would hope that he would be able to disarm and subdue her fairly quickly.

John leaned back against the bathroom tile, fingers gripping the sink. Look at him: thinking about fighting his wife. This is not what regular married couples do. They’re hardly a normal couple, right? He watched his wife make a perfect shot through a coin. Should he be impressed? Hardly. He had seen plenty of crackshots in Afghanistan. He was only worried about that gun being turned on Sherlock again. John looked into the mirror above the sink. The dark shadows under his eyes had faded, but with Sherlock ignoring his body’s need to sleep and heal, they never really went away. When he changed his bandages, John’s vision would blur with the rising tears. He never wanted Sherlock to have a matching bullet wound. The echo of a gunshot made John flinch. He gripped the edge of the sink till his knuckles went white, heart racing. He knew the sound was just a memory, louder than other times, but a ghost nonetheless. His shoulder ached.

Suddenly, the bathroom was just too tight. The air had been sucked out so fast, his head spun. Darkness circled the edges of his vision. He reached for the door handle, calling out for Sherlock. His words sounded slow and slurred. He just managed the door before collapsing into Sherlock’s chest. The other man held strong and gently lowered John to the floor. Sherlock quickly bent John’s knees and placed a hand under his head. He had spent a good portion of his youth fainting. Ignoring his body’s need for food usually came at such a price.

“John,” Sherlock called. “Can you hear me?” Only seconds later, John’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and unseeing. Sherlock soothed his hair until his eyes focused on the man over him.

“I couldn’t catch my breath,” John murmured.

“Not enough oxygen to that useless brain of yours,” Sherlock laughed. John eased himself onto his elbows. Sherlock stood and helped John up.

“How can my doctor guide my recovery when he does not care for his own wellbeing?” John’s mouth quirked. John settled on the couch while Sherlock made tea.

Sherlock hovered in the doorway. John was staring off into space, eyes lost in the pattern of the carpet. It had hit him so hard. This domestic bliss was short-term, just momentary peace while Sherlock was too weak to go out on his own, jumping across rooftops and tackling men twice his weight; all this was just a ruse.

Just a glimpse into a life they could have had.

Before Sherlock jumped.

Before John married an assassin.

It was a reminder of the wasted years they had spent pining over each other, but that time has slipped between their fingers. John felt that familiar twist in his stomach. A grey veil enveloped him, and all he could think of is the recently sharpened set of kitchen knives in the drawer. He could almost feel the sharp pinch on his neck. The coppery smell would linger in the carpet and drapes for weeks. Mrs. Hudson would have to get new carpet. She could just get a professional cleaner, but who would want to remember the blood stain that was once there. John realizes that he must look better on the outside than what he felt on the inside, and it feels like a small victory. It would surprise so many people to hear of his suicide. People would comment on his blog wishing that he were still there, praising his skills as a doctor and assistant detective, how they would never have guessed that he hated living so much. The only person who would know would be Sherlock. Would his friends cry? Mary might, or they could be tears of a woman who has to find a new life to hide in again.

Would Sherlock cry?

John stood suddenly and was startled by Sherlock’s presence. He hadn’t realized he had been standing there.

“Going somewhere?”

John shook his head and accepted the tea from Sherlock. As he drank, he considered that he had almost tried to find an answer to that question. He had been on the edge and gave too much thought to the idea. It was a dangerous path to continue down, and he had to be more careful not to venture down there again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as John wants to tell Sherlock what it is that he's feeling, he doesn't think Sherlock would understand, and he can't think of anything that would hurt him more.

_“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” John laughs silently while Sherlock smiles at him._

_“It’s not.”_

_Sherlock shrugs. “It was worth a try.”_

_“We’re not naming our daughter after you.”_

_“I think it could work.”_

_John chuckles, then meets his eyes. They hold each other’s gaze for a second before Sherlock looks away. He wants to remember those beautiful eyes just after he laughs. He wasn’t sure when he would see them again. Sherlock removes his glove and holds his hand out._

_“To the very best of times, John.”_

John thought about those words every day. He spoke to the man almost daily, but those words and that longing look made the blurry edges of their relationship so much more clear. He and Mary could no longer have sex, and deep down, Mary knew why. She could see it in the way John would lean over the kitchen sink, shoulders hunched as he gently caressed the back of his neck, fingers twirling around invisible curls. She would have been hurt if she didn’t already know they had spent long hours in each other’s arms. It wasn’t a physical relationship yet, but falling in love with someone else is still cheating even if you don’t fuck, isn’t it?

Mary laughed to herself.

 _So he fell in love with the bloody addict_. She remembered the brothers bickering on the plane and still wonders what was written in that list.

John rubbed circles into his temples. It had been a full schedule, and it wasn’t even noon yet. All he wanted to do was take off his shoes. He only had a few minutes to himself before the next patient. His phone chimed.

_I may have ordered too much chicken tikka masala if you are interested. -SH_

John smiled. _I might be able to stop by after work for a few._

_I will see you then. -SH_

When Sarah knocked on the door to ready him for the next patient, he slid his phone in his pocket and put on his polite smile.

He ended their visit with a prescription for amoxicillin and said he goodbyes to his patient. Sarah gently rapped on his door again.

“Your next patient hasn’t come in yet, so it’ll be a cancelled appointment.” John rolled his eyes. “But hey, you can take off early for lunch.”

John quickly ran out, struggling to get his jacket on, and hailed a cab. When the familiar black door came into view, he jumped out, shoving bills into the cabbie’s hand before flying up the seventeen steps.

“Sherlock,” John panted. All he wanted to do was kiss that perfect mouth of his. He had just reached the doorway when he noticed a certain pregnant woman.

“Mary,” John exclaimed. “What brings you here?” She turned to give her husband a tight smile.

“I just thought I would stop by. See how the cases are going. Shouldn’t you be at the surgery?”

“My last patient cancelled, so I thought I would raid Sherlock’s takeaway rather than order my own.”

“All the way to 221B for some takeaway,” she repeated.

“He gets it for free from the best Indian place in London.” Mary shrugged, hand resting on her belly.

“Well then, you two. I have a meeting with some gals for a pedicure. I’m finally going to get these sausages massaged and pampered.” She kissed John on the cheek. He accompanied her downstairs.

John closed the door behind her with a smile. He let out a long breath and climbed the steps again. Sherlock was sitting on the arm of John’s chair. He looked absolutely gorgeous in his black shirt and trousers.

“Hungry?”

John grinned. “For you, always.” Sherlock’s mouth opened in shock.

 John stood between Sherlock’s knees as they kissed. The room still held the hint of Mary’s perfume, but Sherlock’s scent was what he craved the most. John paused a moment.

“Or did you actually mean for lunch?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, but this is much better.” Sherlock mouthed John’s neck as he worked at Sherlock’s buttons. When he slid the shirt from Sherlock’s pale shoulders, John stopped yet again.

“What is it,” Sherlock growled in frustration. John gently touched the skin around the healed bullet wound. It had healed better than his own. The infection that had struck him did not happen to Sherlock, and John was grateful for that. He didn’t think he would be able to forgive himself for letting him got shot in the first place.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, gently running his knuckles over the side of John’s face.

“It’s all my fault.” Sherlock’s worried face quickly twisted into a frown.

“Stop punishing yourself. There was no way you could have known if I hadn’t even deduced it.”

“She’s my wife though.”

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s. The height difference was shorter this time with him sitting on the armchair.

“She lied to us both, and I just didn’t catch it in time.”

“Sherlock, look at yourself!” The other man leaned away quickly. “I have put you through so much. Your skin has been marred for me. How can I forgive myself?”

Sherlock’s anger flared. “I do not understand what it is that makes you think you could have stopped this.”

“You never do.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Face it, Sherlock: you’ve never understood human nature, and you’ve never understood me. You dragged me around to help you solve cases and shoot the bad guys that got to you first.”

“John, why would you think-”

“Has the novelty worn off, Sherlock? Now that you’ve had to sacrifice parts of yourself for me.”

Sherlock sat quietly, desperate to figure out why John was so upset, especially over things that were not true. He had always valued John. Since the moment he passed his mobile to him after just meeting him, he had known that this man was someone he could trust. His loyalty was written on his weathered face. Sherlock never just dragged him along, as much as it might have seemed that way; John was invaluable to Sherlock’s deductions, and he provided a perspective that Sherlock was not familiar with. John was the reason why so many people approached him; he gave him warmth. Of course, as much as he felt that John romanticized his work, it was because of him that he even had the mass amount of cases to sift through. Sherlock knew that he did not express these thoughts well, and he had difficulty articulating anything without an air of arrogance, but John was the closest thing he had to a friend. He missed the long hours of sitting together in their flat, John nagging over his inability to sit still and keep from walking on the furniture. Sherlock would watch him from the corner of his eye and marvel at the different ways John’s expressions would change, even the slightest, while he watched crap telly or read the newspaper. Sherlock could admit that he might not be a good man, but John made him better, and isn’t that what made partnerships work? Making each other better? All Sherlock wanted was to lay next to John and memorize every inch of his person. Every freckle, scar, birthmark, he wanted to file away in that warm room in his mind palace where he kept everything that reminded him of John. Everything else was placed in their respective rooms and left there to gather dust until he thought it necessary to bring them out again, but John, he had free reign over his mind palace. He would march through the halls, peering into rooms with his Sig tucked into the back of his jeans. Occasionally, he would pull files, and ask Sherlock what things meant, and despite the lack of patience he had in reality, he would spend hours in his head, following John around and answering his questions. It had never bothered him; John was genuinely curious about the secrets he held, and he never judged him when he revealed them. He loved John as much as he thought he could, but Sherlock knew that he could do more. It had just been such a long time.

John stared at Sherlock’s blank expression. The bastard had gone and left him for his mind palace. John began to pull away when Sherlock focused and held onto his forearms.

“Tell me, John. Make me understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I could always tell what you were thinking in the past, but I have been unable to these last several months.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want to do that,”

“Please, John. I need to understand what it is that you are feeling. I need to,” Sherlock let go of his arms. “I need you to be with me.”

“I can’t,”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know how to put it into words right now.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, looking around the sitting room. His eyes landed on the sofa.

“Can you explain to me what had happened when you last sat over there?” John followed Sherlock’s gaze. “Where were you going so abruptly? What were you thinking?”

John remembered. He recalled the sickening twist in his stomach, the itch underneath his skin. He sat on the coffee table with his elbows on his knees.

“If I tell you, you will think differently of me.”

“Why is that?”

John faced the kitchen, heart thrumming. “I won’t be the man that you think I am.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

“Brave, strong, stubborn,”

“You’re still all of those things, regardless of what you say or-”

“I wanted to kill myself,” John blurted.

Once those words were out, the rest flowed out. He wanted to show Sherlock how weak he truly was. “I wanted to dig a knife into my arm until blood dripped through the floorboards. I wanted unconsciousness to envelope me.”

Sherlock gripped the edge of the armchair. “Wanted, or still do?”

In that short moment of hesitation, Sherlock had his answer, but when John spoke, it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“It hurts to breathe, Sherlock. I thought you saved me when you brought me along on our first case, but there was only so much you could fix.” John took a shaky breath. “I had chalked it up to the PTSD, but every moment I stay alive, the more I want to die. It’s like a gnat that won’t leave me alone. I can ignore it sometimes, but some days, like right here,” he made a vague motion to the sofa behind him. “There’s a pull I can’t always fight.”

Sherlock had no reason to think that John was making his situation sound worse than what it actually was, because John was a tough man, and if he felt himself falling into a dark place that he himself has visited many a time, he had to help him. Sherlock thought back to those times he would catch John standing in his room, seemingly staring off into the distance lost in thought. John’s face had lost that inner glow, the most beautiful thing about him, and it never occurred to him that there may have been something wrong. He needed more data.

He needed to know how bad this had gotten.

“John,” Sherlock eased off the armchair and pulled his knees to his chest. He would give all his attention to this man, lock himself in his flat to make sure that no one would disturb them just so that John would feel safe with him.

“What does your gun taste like?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's relationship all depends on this moment.

When John finally glanced at his phone, his heart sank.

Fifty-nine missed calls.

“We’re in a lot of trouble,” Sherlock said.

John was rushed out of the delivery room. He had not seen so much blood since Afghanistan. The doctors hurried Mary’s unconscious body into surgery.

“Let me through!” John fought against two burly male nurses. “I’m a bloody doctor!”

“Your wife needs surgery immediately, Doctor Watson. You will just have to wait until she is stable, and your baby has been delivered.” They left John behind the double doors. Sherlock stood from his sprawled position in the waiting room. When they had first arrived, there had been a whole other family, but they were gone. Sherlock must’ve scared them away.

“Critical condition,” Sherlock stated.

“Not now, Sherlock,”

“She might not make it, John. It is best to prepare for that possibility.”

John sniffed hard, nostrils flaring and fists clenching at his sides. Sherlock knew he was walking on thin ice, but if Mary died, wouldn’t life be easier? John could return to 221B for good and solve cases with him. Their relationship would finally be something serious; no more sneaking around and wishing John would press ever so much closer into him.

Sherlock stepped into his mind palace where Mary didn’t exist and John would press against his back in bed, laying gentle morning kisses into his hair. John would nuzzle into Sherlock’s neck, sliding his hands into the waistband of his pajama pants and caressing the spot where his hip met his thigh.

Sherlock yanked himself out of thought when a surge of electricity ran down his spine. He tightened his coat around himself to keep John from noticing the interest from his crotch. John was leaning against the wall by the doors, switching his weight onto his good leg.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

“What Sherlock? What do you want?”

“I am sorry that you are in this predicament.” John scoffed, keeping his back turned. “But would you not agree that this may be for the best?” John uncrossed his arms and faced Sherlock. Rage boiled under John’s skin. How dare the bastard?

“Considering the baby isn’t yours to begin with, we could finally give each other every-“

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, John.” John rushed forward in three long steps. Despite their height difference, in that moment, John was the largest man in the room. His body was tense, exuding the strength of a man who was comfortable with violence.

“Repeat what you said, or so help me, Sherlock,” John’s fists curled at his sides.

“The baby is not yours.”

“How do you know?”

“I could go through all the details if you’d like,” John raised his hand in objection.

“You kept this from me,” John whispered. “For all this time.”

John’s body had stilled so much that Sherlock could hardly react fast enough to avoid the punch thrown into his face. John sent his fist crashing into Sherlock’s nose, causing the taller man to fall to the floor. Sherlock couldn’t scramble to his feet fast enough before John kicked him in the ribs. John straddled Sherlock’s abdomen and struck his face multiple times. Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut.

 _I deserve it,_ Sherlock chanted silently to himself, tears prickling behind his clenched eyes. How many times had he been in this same position growing up? He had thought he was being clever, but the other boys never understood and beat him until he could no longer breathe. That’s why he had taken care to train himself in various forms of self-defense, but there was no way he could fight back now, not with John. He had tried to keep him from Mary’s betrayal, but how could he now, knowing that Mary’s chances of survival were slim to none at this point. Sherlock tried so hard to save John from this, but he always had to mess it up, didn’t he?

John couldn’t see anything but red, and he was pretty sure that for those few moments, he had blacked out from rage, because soon, he found himself with his fist raised and tears clinging to Sherlock’s eyelashes. Blood gushed from his nose and mingled with the sweat droplets that had fallen from John’s brow. With a shaky breath, John rose to his feet and stood at the far end of the room.

“You should be going,”

Sherlock remained on the floor, letting the tears slide down his temples. He had estimated that he had at least one broken rib and a fractured orbital bone, but those were minor pains compared to the distance in John’s voice. Sherlock struggled to rise and wrapped his arms around himself. He had hoped that John would look at him as he left through the opposite doors, but he made it out of the hospital without John running back to him, asking for forgiveness, and declaring his love for him. Life was not a romantic movie as much as people would like it to be, and even though Sherlock never was one for fantasy, he lingered outside in the freezing rain, hoping that maybe this time it could be.

Sherlock stood in a familiar alley with his face upturned into the rain, letting it wash away the blood but none of the shame. The insistent throbbing was painful, and the water always seemed to land right in one of the cuts on his face. It had been many years since he stood in this place, and he had hoped that someone new was running it, but he knew better.

“Well, isn’t it bloody Sherlock Holmes,” the voice cooed. Sherlock kept his eyes focused on the brick in front of him. He had solved a number of cases slumped against that wall.

“Not looking too hot there, Sherl. What have you come to forget?”

“I want my seven percent.”

“Don’t you think that might be a little high for someone so out of practice.”

“Victor,” Sherlock growled.

“Remember when we were such happy lads, Sherl? The world was just another adventure for us. What happened to that?” Victor Trevor smiled lazily at Sherlock from the shadows. Half his body leaned into the light Sherlock was in. Sherlock looked down at his own feet. He never could remember when he was happy. His past was always blurry with images of raised fists and mocking laughter.

“That was never real.”

“Sure it was!” Victor had stepped out of the shadows now. He slicked his brick-colored hair back with the rain. The freckles on his cheekbones had darkened over the years.

“Don’t you recall, Sherlock? All those delicious times we spent together playing pirates, solving mysterious cases of dead chipmunks, and hoping that your mummy wouldn’t catch us holding hands in the garden. Please tell me you remember, because if you don’t, you must not be the “Great Detective” everyone has made you out to be.”

“I’ve not come to reminisce about our youth, Victor.”

“No? Then maybe you’ve come to get your ass fucked like all those times before. Can you count the number of times you would crawl back here, begging for another hit, begging for my cock in your mouth? How many hands would you need to count the times?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, Victor dipped his head to meet his gaze. “I’ll ask my original question then. What have you come to forget, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes grew hot, but he managed to keep the tears at bay. Victor’s eyes watched him carefully. He may not have the intellect that Sherlock had, but Victor was still incredibly bright. Sherlock’s throat felt swollen and the words grated their way out.

“My blogger,”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the strain between Sherlock and John distances them too far, they've been forced to work out their feelings with one another. There isn't enough whiskey or cocaine to hide behind now.

With some toast and two cups of tea in him, John felt a tad less drunk. It had really started to wear off the moment Mrs. Hudson pointed a gun at them. John held the cup in both hands as he stared at the tea remnants at the bottom. Sherlock sat across from him with his head hanging on the back of his chair, arms limp over the sides. His legs were extended far into where John’s feet would normally be. John kept his tucked close to the chair.

The silence was deafening. John gulped hard, and even though he had so much to say, he didn’t think he could say it right. Sherlock’s breaths were slow and even, and John thought that maybe he had fallen asleep. John placed his cup on the side table softly. John stared at the marks that soiled Sherlock’s perfect skin. God, he had to fuck everything up, didn’t he?

“I know I have hurt you,” John began. “In more ways than one.” Sherlock remained still. Maybe he really was asleep. Whether or not he heard him, it would make good practice to get everything out for when he did wake up.

“I have never been good with expressing my feelings or emotions. I think that’s why I made such a good army doctor; my emotions had to be pushed away to save people. I wasn’t ready for civilian life, I know that, and when I met you, you threw me back onto the battlefield. I couldn’t have been more grateful for that.”

John stared at his quivering hands and balled them up tightly in his lap. “I never expected you to fix me, but I didn’t think that I would worsen,” he sighed. “I thought that maybe you would provide enough distraction that I wouldn’t have time to consider how much I wanted to die, but then you were the one to, and I was plunged into the worst of it.”

John slid closer to the edge of his chair and clasped his hands together under his chin. He placed his feet on either side of Sherlock’s. He looked up at the other man to see that he had not moved, and his chest rose and fell smoothly. “I had imagined that I would tell you this when we were on better terms, that maybe I would wake up to you watching me one day. Your hair would be wild from the pillows, and all I would want to do was stay in bed with you and tell you all the things I have wanted to. I realize that time has passed, but you still deserve to know.”

“After you left for Serbia, I stood on the roof of St. Bart’s time after time. I would imagine you still standing there at that edge, and I would align my feet with yours. I wanted to jump after you, Sherlock. That’s all I dreamt about. I would leave early for work just so I could have time to stand where your body had hit the pavement. I swear, I could still see the blood staining the pavement. It was on one particularly bad day, I had too many pints, and I made my way to Bart’s again, because I had decided that it would be the day I would join you. Where at? I had no idea, but I knew that I had to see you again.

“And it was there, outside of Bart’s, that I met Mary. I thought it was fate’s way of saying that it wasn’t my time yet, and I went with it.” John pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to shove back the memories of a false marriage. “But then you turned up again, and God! I should have known that you would not leave me. I wanted to believe in the long glances you’d give me or the gentle way you would touch me when you weren’t watching your movements. I was furious for a few days, but all I could think about was that crooked smile of yours and how you get less and less funny the more uncomfortable you feel.

“I thought you were incredibly handsome when we first met, and I fell in love with you the moment you pulled out that gun at the pool. I have only ever wanted to be with you, but I never knew how to express it right, or hell, how to treat you right. I am so sorry I ever raised my hands toward you out of anger. I’m fully responsible, and I don’t expect you to forgive me or even like me after all I have done to you, but I just want you to know that this is how I feel. I have never once regretted becoming your flatmate.”

The pressure in John’s head subsided. Maybe this is how his therapy sessions were supposed to go instead of him dancing around questions and reading Ella’s notes upside down. John looked around the sitting room and smiled to himself. He had fallen asleep on that sofa so many times after staying up for more than forty-eight hours on stake-outs and alleyway chases. Sherlock would be a flurry of energy through the flat while he snored loudly. Clients would sit in the special chair to share their cases, and Sherlock would sit in his chair with that haughty lift of his chin while John took notes. John would sit and listen to Sherlock play concertos on the violin as he read through the newspaper. He once had a life in this flat, but he had thrown it away.

“I thought I would be the more difficult flatmate to live with,” Sherlock rumbled. John’s eyes snapped toward the still reclining figure.

“I know I am not an easy man to be around, but you had managed to find a way.” Sherlock lifted his head. “It was relieving to not have to find another flatmate, especially one that was equally useful.”

“I have not figured out what exactly it is that I want to say, quite frankly, but I do want to clear any questions that you may have.” Sherlock closed his eyes for a long time before speaking in a firm voice.

“I do forgive you. I forgive your treatment toward me, your marriage to Mary, your ignorance toward my feelings for the majority of our flatshare.” Sherlock sat up properly, drawing his legs back toward him. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. John admired the ease in which Sherlock moved.

“I kept a newspaper clipping of you folded into a tiny square under the sole of my shoe. When I managed to find a place to sleep, I would set it beside my head and imagine that you were there next to me. It is what kept me grounded the most, I think. I had another version of you in my mind, of course, but he would always call me a prat, and well, the photo of you never did that,” he laughed quietly, eyes drifting to the marks on his forearm. “I do regret trying to forget you. I tried so hard after that night. You were so cross with me, and I thought that after telling you about the child, you would never be able to love me or think I was brilliant. The only thing I wanted to do was forget that you were the most important thing to me.”

The two men sat quietly, staring at their own feet. Sherlock gripped the sides of his head. John glanced up at him. Tears glistened at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “I just don’t recognize this person that you have made me.” John went to his side immediately. John had always considered Sherlock to be the most clinical, analytical mind he had known. Sherlock was supposed to be almost mechanic in his behavior toward others and the way he processed his own feelings, but seeing him now, hands twisted roughly into his hair in frustration, John considered that maybe Sherlock was the one with more emotions. John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s hair. In that quiet moment, he regretted all the times he called Sherlock a machine.

“No, Sherlock, please,” he murmured into Sherlock’s hair. “It’s okay.” John had a feeling that this lack of control was mostly due to the come down of Sherlock’s high, but it was quite plausible that these feelings were mostly foreign to him and more than a little frustrating for him to process.

John soothed Sherlock’s hair with his fingers and let Sherlock press his cheek into his shoulder. Tears left a wet spot in John’s button-down. Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes alight. John swiped his thumb over Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I want to spend the rest of my life making up for all the terrible things I have done to you.” John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Let’s make up all the time we wasted pretending that we were just flatmates.”

“Should we start over?” Sherlock held his lips in front of John’s.

John smiled against his lips. Their mouths were gentle against one another, unlike all the other times of rushed snogging in between lunch breaks. There were no more secrets between them, and even though not everything was properly solved, it was a start.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Sherlock chuckled.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was sure of most things. His feelings for John were one of them, and despite the kind touches John gives him, all he can see is the soldier with Sherlock's blood on his hands. He wants to forgive him, but he cannot do it alone.

John had moved the last of his belongings back into Baker Street a few days later on the condition that Sherlock present any and all cocaine in the flat to him first. John sat on the sofa with a prepped vial held between his fingers. There was nothing on it- no label, no markings, nothing. It may have looked harmless to others, but as John stared up at Sherlock’s healing marks and the sickly pallor of his face, he knew otherwise. Sherlock hadn’t gone through the worst stages of withdrawal yet. The body aches and sweats had already begun. He and Sherlock had to do the washing twice already since they decided that John would be returning to Baker Street, because Sherlock had sweat through most of his lounge wear.

“What about needles?”

“I mostly used disposable ones,” Sherlock confessed.

“Mostly?”

Sherlock lowered his head a little and with a sigh, went to the fireplace, reached into it and produced a dark wooden box. He handed it to John while facing the windows.

John gingerly opened the warm, smooth box. It was lined with plush black velvet and was obviously something very cherished by its owner. The hypodermic needle inside was an antique and kept in pristine condition. Next to it were alcohol swabs and a neatly coiled rubber tourniquet.

“When I wasn’t in a rush and really want to relish my high, I used this. It wasn’t about the high, but the act rather. I haven’t used it in awhile.”

John closed the lid and placed it on the cushion next to him. “I don’t think it is a good idea to keep it. What do you think?”

Sherlock wiped sweat from his temple with a quivering hand. “It is one of my prized possessions, not only for its value, but because it was gifted to me in university.”

“Is this person still in your life?”

Sherlock thought back to when Victor had given it to him in the stairwell of their dormitory. He had kissed him when he handed the box over. Sherlock had almost thought that their relationship was something more than just drugs and sex. That thought didn’t last, however, as Victor brought out cocaine to snort and fucked him against the wall.

“I don’t treasure it anymore,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Right. Okay. I will dispose of it then.” John grabbed Sherlock’s clammy hand. “Is that it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock met his eyes. “Yes. I am sure of it.”

John smiled and kissed his hand, not minding the fine sheen of sweat. “Would you like some tea?” Sherlock grimaced. The amount of sugar Sherlock liked in his tea made his stomach twist painfully. “Maybe some cool water and a long bath then?”

Sherlock and John rested in the tub together. John massaged Sherlock’s scalp gently with his expensive shampoo and carded his fingers through his hair. Sherlock rested his head on his raised knees.

“I’ve gone through this before,” Sherlock groaned, “but it never gets any easier.” John rubbed easy circles into Sherlock’s shoulder blades. He knew that with wounds like Sherlock’s, the nerves would be sensitive and easily aggravated just like his own bullet wound, even after it had healed so many years ago.

“I could fall asleep like this.”

“And get all wrinkly?”

John leaned around Sherlock to see his mouth quirked up. “Wouldn’t you love me all wrinkly?”

“Only if I was equally so,” Sherlock laughed. “I wouldn’t want to be caught solving cases with an old man.”

“We would have to rely on the Yard to drive us around for leads.”

Sherlock suddenly faced him, splashing water onto the floor. “We would never get anything done!” John chuckled and kissed the side of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Please,” John started, “madmen like you don’t age.”

“It’s not just me anymore.” Sherlock kissed John back eagerly. They kissed for several moments before Sherlock pulled away. “Even though, I hope you are fully aware that time does not stop,”

John splashed him with soapy water. “I’m not thick,” John yelled.

Sherlock leaned back against John’s chest with a satisfied hum and rested the back of his head in the crook of John’s neck. John rinsed off his hair with water gathered in his cupped hands.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Marginally,” Sherlock sighed. “It will only worsen as I have spent some time getting reacquainted with my drug of choice.”

John leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear and breathed in his clean skin. He wondered if it would have been best to call up Mycroft so that Sherlock could get proper treatment, but he knew that if he had gotten the elder Holmes involved, the fragile state of their relationship would be rocked yet again. John wasn’t sure he wanted to go through that, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t manage some withdrawal symptoms and treatment; he was a doctor after all. He had gathered enough paracetamol, nausea suppressants, and ice packs to last them a few months, even though he hoped that Sherlock would be much better within a few weeks, it wasn’t like it would go to waste considering how often they get themselves into trouble on cases.

“I appreciate that you are allowing me to be this close to you, so soon into a new aspect of our relationship.”

“It’s going to take some getting used to, but we’re in no rush, right?”

Sherlock frowned to himself. Of course there was no rush. Spending years thinking about these sort of precious moments with John, pushing the moans of the women he would fuck upstairs out of his head, and even giving a best man speech meant that he was in no rush. Time was all they had apparently. Of course. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the faucet. John must think that he has never been in a physical relationship like this. That might be partially true. Victor never held him like this. Instead, he would leave the bed if Sherlock’s comedown was intolerable and leave him to deal with the dopamine depletion alone. The only thing Sherlock wanted was to make up for lost time, but how could John see this when Sherlock was suffering from cold-sweats and migraines. He probably looked like a bloody addict.

Wasn’t he?

Sherlock closed his eyes and relived the warm feel of the cocaine entering his blood vessels. He had lied to John when he had said that he had given up everything. He still had the most recent vial of his seven percent. Would John stay if he knew that he still had some? It wasn’t the sort of experiment he was willing to test, but it would be inevitable once John’s schedule at the surgery resumed. His plans for it had changed; rather than forgetting the other man in the tub, he wanted to forget the pain he had caused. John may think that all is well, that his apology is the solution to the several stitches required for his head, his bloodshot eye, and his fractured ribs, but Sherlock was not consoled. His brain would not allow him to forget the raw anger in John’s face as he swung at him with deadly precision.

 _Bad days indeed,_ Sherlock thought.

The cocaine was more than just a cure for boredom. It seemed to slow down space, giving him ample time to feel the world around him rather than the usual maelstrom of sensory he was so accustomed to shifting through. It made living in such a dull world almost tolerable. He could stroll through his mind palace and relive his fondest memories without worrying about the contents of the basement. Most days, he had firm control over its contents. Moriarty’s taunts were annoying at best, but Sherlock had days when he was so caught up in the flurry of sensory input that he wouldn’t notice Moriarty’s loosened restraints. Usually, it was John that would square his shoulders and march down with stoic heroism, but recently, John would hurt him more than Moriarty. Sorting through files meant keeping the door locked behind him as John kicked at the lock, demanding to be let in, because how dare he keep things hidden from him.

Sherlock couldn’t bear the cruelty of that John as well. His only hope to rectify the John of his mind was to take the time to find that moment and properly delete it. To place it downstairs with Moriarty would mean that it would still be in his head- the deep recesses of his mind, but there nonetheless with the Napoleon of crime.

The next time Sherlock had a few hours to himself, he could do it. He would have enough time to fall from his high as well. Hopefully after that, he would be able to look at John without seeing his own blood spattered on his fists.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock delves into his mind palace and fights to delete the file that makes him fear John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> John is not very nice.  
> This chapter is a little heavy on the violence!  
> -Violence  
> -Animal abuse  
> -Drug use/vivid drug use  
> -Blood

Sherlock was still asleep half past ten in the morning. John sat in his chair and surveyed the sitting room. As much as he wanted to trust that Sherlock gave him all the narcotics in his possession, Sherlock was still an addict. John tried to spot anything that looked out of place, but Sherlock’s mess was as how it had always been. The chaos of the flat was an almost endearing trait of Sherlock’s. He had tried to tidy things in the past, but stacks of papers, files, and books still littered nearly every surface. John spent the next thirty minutes sitting there in silence, listening to the snores coming from Sherlock’s bedroom.

John was more than certain that he loved that great git in the other room, and the fact that Sherlock had a drug problem didn’t change that, but it certainly disappointed him. A man with such a big brain thought so little of what it would do to him in the long run. John worried at his lower lip. Maybe he had put too much stress onto Sherlock. Flaunting his marriage in front of him while stealing kisses in the flat during lunch breaks must’ve upset him. And if that didn’t do it, John pummeling him on the floor did the trick. John rested his head on his hand.

He almost threw it all away, but Sherlock, with the softest of hearts, forgave him. So many years listening to the man push people away with barbed insults and a cold exterior, and he was the warmest inside. John stared at his fisted hand. Maybe he was the machine? Everyone thought that John was the easy-going mate, the kind doctor in the cable-knit jumpers, but sometimes, he thought otherwise. He had shown how far he was willing to go for a man he had just met when he shot that cabbie, and that was definitely not in stereotypical jumper-wearing invalid form. Sherlock could see right through it, of course, and John felt like he didn’t have to hide himself anymore, but that night in hospital, there was nothing of himself in his violence. He thought back to the times his father would raise his hands to him in fits of drunken rage. He had suffered the most at his father’s hand growing up, standing in as the punching bag instead of his sister. Harry would clean the cuts on his lips and press bags of frozen vegetables to his face. It wasn’t until he started playing rugby that John’s muscles filled out, and his fists would match his father’s. Standing over Sherlock’s curled body on the hospital floor reminded him of the first time he had managed to knock out his father. It was something he never wanted to do to a family member again, but he didn’t have the strength to stop himself from doing it to the person he cared for the most.

John pressed his head into the back of the chair. He had a lot of making up to do.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson called gently from the doorway. She held a tray of fruit tarts and biscuits. “I’m glad to see you’re finally settled in.”

John made no effort to help her with the tray as she placed it down on the coffee table. She withdrew Sherlock’s revolver from the waist of her skirt.

“I don’t think I will be needing to hold onto this any longer. What do you say, John?” She set the gun beside the tray.

“Things will get better,”

“I certainly hope so.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I have known Sherlock for a long time, John,”

“I know,” he began, glancing to the floor.

“I don’t think you do.” John met Mrs. Hudson’s stern face. “Sherlock may not know what it’s like to be hit by someone he loves,” she paused to listen to Sherlock’s snoring. “I certainly won’t let him go through that.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds longer before she relaxed and set out to make tea. The clinking of ceramic mugs brought Sherlock out of the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson went over with a mug of tea.

“Since you broke my tea set,” she remarked. Sherlock took the mug in both hands and kissed her gently on the cheek.

“Is today better then, Sherlock?”

“Much. The headache is tolerable.”

“I’ve brought you some of your favorite sweets. I don’t want to see a single one left when I come to check on you later.” Sherlock nodded into his mug. Mrs. Hudson gave his arm a gentle squeeze before leaving the flat, casting one more warning glance at John. Sherlock went into the sitting room, threw himself onto the sofa, and began picking at the tray Mrs. Hudson brought up.

“I was called in to help out at the surgery, but I wanted to see how you were doing before I accepted.”

Sherlock popped a whole biscuit into his mouth. John watched him chew.

“Are you expecting me to suddenly drop dead?”

“No, just,”

“Then you are free to work. I aim to break my record of solving more than twelve cold cases today. I will certainly be preoccupied.”

“Right.” Sherlock was certainly feeling better to be so grumpy. John picked up his shoes from beside his chair and slipped them on. “Would you want me to pick up dinner?”

“Bring what you like, but I would very much like spring rolls.”

Before John exited the flat, he gave Sherlock a hesitant kiss on his temple. Sherlock held his position on the sofa, hearing the uncertain steps at the bottom of the steps. He counted to three in his head before John walked through the flat again.

“Forgot my bag,” he said, eyes quickly scanning Sherlock.

When John finally left the front door, Sherlock went to the window to watch John walk down the sidewalk, fists tight at his sides. Sherlock glanced at the stack of cold cases Lestrade had given him to pass the time during his recovery from a “stomach virus.” He and John had decided not to let Lestrade know of his little slip, lest Mycroft get wind of it. Sherlock stepped onto the desk carefully and removed the bison skull. A spare needle and his usual seven-percent were taped to the inside.

Sherlock jumped down and closed both doors to the flat. He was just about to enter his room when he stopped. The vial was growing warm his hand. He wanted to be rid of that violent memory of John, but maybe he shouldn’t. That rage was part of John, and he wanted to remember every piece of him. The smell of his own blood overtook his nostrils. Nausea washed over him. Sherlock pressed his forehead to the cool wall. No, he didn’t want to remember John like that, he decided, and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His grip on the vial and syringe tightened as he turned for the stairs to John’s room.

He pushed the door open with gentle fingertips. The room smelled inherently of John and dust. It had been awhile since John had stayed in this bed, Sherlock thought as he went through John’s things. John never had as many things as Sherlock, sticking to the idea that wherever he was, it was only temporary, but he had even fewer things since leaving the house he and Mary shared. He snatched a brown leather belt from atop the dresser and sat at the edge of the bed. Sherlock had to get a move on if he wanted to have ample time to come down.

Sherlock wrapped the belt around his bicep and tightened it with his teeth. The state of his veins may not be the best, but he had some that could still withstand the cocaine. He stuck the needle into the vial and pulled the plunger back. Tightening his fist, he took a deep breath, opened his palm, and pressed the needle in. The sharp pinch hardly bothered him anymore. He pulled back, drawing blood in, and pushed, releasing the belt. A slight burn crawled up his arm and spread across his skin. He recapped the syringe and laid back on the bed, vision tunneling.

With his head swimming in thoughts, he sat up, swaying a bit with the rush of blood. Sherlock recoiled the belt and went to put it in the exact spot John had left it in. His own breaths sounded like bees in his ears. He opened one of the drawers and ran his fingers over jumpers and button downs, reveling in the gentleness he normally associated with John. Sherlock slipped out of his worn tee and held a beige cable-knit sweater to his neck. John’s cheap soap clung to it with just a hint of his cologne and sweat. Sherlock pulled it over his head. His heated skin was smothered by the coolness of the jumper. Sherlock smoothed his hands over his hair.

Every step had a metallic echo as he made his way down the steps, needle and vial held in his palm. He climbed the desk again and knocked his papers to the floor with a muttered curse. Sherlock slowly put his bare feet to the floor again. The rug felt itchy under his toes. He wrapped loose newspaper pages around the used needle like a neat little package, stuck his arm in the kitchen bin to clear some of the garbage and wasted mold cultures, and threw it in. He covered the needle with the rest of the rubbish.

Sherlock stood over the coffee table and shoveled biscuits and mini fruit tarts into his mouth. He coughed at the dryness in the back of his throat. A ringing started in his ears and distracted him from eating.

 _Right,_ he thought. He had something to do.

Sherlock brushed the crumbs off John’s jumper and sat down. The shift of fabric over his chest gave him chills. One day he hoped that John would caress his chest just like his jumper, gentle and warm. Heat gathered in his lower belly. His eyes fluttered closed.

All he could think of in that moment were John’s perfectly steady hands against his skin, rubbing along his ribs, thumbs grazing his nipples. Sherlock kicked his feet up to rest on the table. He could see John smiling darkly at him, knowing that he had the upper hand; Sherlock was at his mercy. John was nestled between his knees and nipped at the insides of Sherlock’s thighs through his soft pajama bottoms. He rose to his feet, leaning his body into Sherlock’s. He braced his arms on the sofa back and bracketed Sherlock’s head. Sherlock opened his mouth in a silent gasp when John ground his hips against Sherlock’s aching groin. John rocked into him while mouthing at his neck. Sherlock was climbing a hill fast, his heart racing against John’s chest, and was at the peak and ready to throw himself down the other side, when John pulled back.

“Open your eyes, Sherlock.” Sherlock relaxed the furrow in his brow and snapped his eyes open.

His heart skipped and dropped into the pit of his stomach.

The muzzle of John’s handgun aimed at the center of Sherlock’s forehead. A scowl twisted John’s mouth.

“I can’t believe it was so easy,” John scoffed. “You think I would ever touch you like this,” he commented, pressing the end of his Sig to Sherlock’s head with disgust in his eyes. “Pathetic.”

“This is almost too easy. Where’s the fun in that, hm?” John withdrew his gun and slid it into the back of his jeans.

Sherlock shot up and stepped toward the door leading out of the flat. John gripped the back of Sherlock’s head, held him close to his body, and whispered, “I don’t think so” into his ear before slamming his face into the doorjamb. Sherlock’s cheek collided with the corner. John threw him into the coffee table. Sherlock gathered his hands beneath him and pushed himself to his knees.

He was no longer in their flat, but in one of the many halls of his mind palace. John stepped out from one of the rooms. Fear struck Sherlock’s chest like a hammer. He had let himself get wrapped up in a fantasy and forgotten why he couldn’t trust the John of his mind palace. Sherlock got to his feet. John was not in his jumper and jacket anymore, but a finely tailored blue suit with a cheery grin.

“I’ve had a lot of time to consider the best ways to burn you, Sherlock,” he said in a familiar sing-song manner. “Of course, I had some help, but what do you think?” He spread his arms and did a turn. “Certainly an upgrade from those hideous jumpers, as you call them.” John approached Sherlock.

“So what do you say, Sherlock? Is the game on?”

Sherlock spit blood onto the floor. John frowned. “You fucking disrespectful-” Sherlock sprinted the other way toward the stairs. He had only one chance to get to John’s room so he could properly delete the file, the memory of the hospital, before all his data was corrupted. Sherlock took the steps two at a time up toward John’s room. A gunshot rang; the bullet grazed his calf. The pain was sharp and searing, but he had gotten lucky. John would not miss again.

At the next floor, Sherlock threw his body into John’s door, but it did not budge. He rattled the locked doorknob. John reached the top step, not a single hair out of place.

“Oh dear, is the bedroom locked? I always did hate when you would barge in without knocking.” John reached into his breast pocket and tossed a key into the hall.

“Go on then, Sherlock. Get it, boy.” Sherlock breathed heavily; blood rushed loudly in his ears. “You always left me behind,” John sighed sadly. “You never cared that I worried when I lost sight of you.” The sadistic gleam had left John’s eyes, and Sherlock thought that maybe the data had not been completely poisoned.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

John’s face darkened again. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip. “Let’s see how fast those legs can move.” John clicked his tongue twice.

Tears prickled behind Sherlock’s eyes when a red Irish setter came around the corner with ears flattened and teeth bared. Sherlock grit his teeth. Redbeard stood loyally in front of John, poised to attack. Sherlock had to push down the sob welling up in his throat.

“Sic’em, boy,” John growled. Nails skidding over the floor, Redbeard shot toward him. Sherlock raced to the key. The dog leapt over it and clamped his teeth around Sherlock’s outstretched arm. A cry slipped out of Sherlock’s lips. He twisted around to grip the key with the other arm as Redbeard dragged him toward John. Tears stung on their way down Sherlock’s face. He dug his nails into the floor, but it was no use as they were ripped out of their beds. He grasped helplessly for the walls, leaving a bloody trail behind.

Redbeard opened his mouth to get a better grip on Sherlock’s arm. Alarms wailed in Sherlock’s head. He swung his leg and landed a solid kick to the dog’s side. Sherlock just managed to scramble to his feet when the gunshot struck his left shoulder. He cried out in pain.

“Never trust a dog to carry out your work!” John kicked Redbeard’s stomach. Sherlock had to hurry. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling as he tried to unlock the door. John aligned the front sights to Sherlock’s arm and fired. The bullet went through his right forearm. He was sobbing loudly as the key clicked, and he rushed in, locking the door behind him.

Sherlock allowed himself a moment to cry over Redbeard. His body burned and ached, but his chest was heavy for his first best friend.

“Oh, don’t cry, Sherlock,” John cooed from the other side of the door. Sherlock pushed himself off.

“It was just a dog.” John banged on the door.

Sherlock ignored him and threw himself down, reaching under John’s bed for his army trunk. He flipped the lid and pushed aside John’s uniform, various military mementos, and paperwork. It wasn’t there. He stood and glanced around the room. It was an exact replica of what John’s room looked like in 221B, but something was off. The dresser had been shifted just the slightest from its original spot judging by the scratch marks. Sherlock pressed his back against the side and pushed, body screaming out in protest. John’s efforts on the door increased.

Folded into fours, the file had a timestamp and a description of the memory, but Sherlock didn’t need assistance to recall it. The coppery scent of blood stung his nose. He could feel John’s knuckles crash into his face. Sherlock went around and opened the bottom drawer. His cigarettes and lighters were nestled in the corner. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and flicked the lighter again at the corner of the memory. The door came crashing down with John on it. He was disheveled and sweaty when he stood. Sherlock held the burning file between his fingers as he blew a stream of smoke out from the side of his mouth.

“I suppose I was never good at hiding things from you,” John laughed, eyes catching the light of the growing flame in Sherlock’s hand. John threw his pistol to the floor beside the bed and removed his suit jacket. Sherlock let the burning paper fall to the floor.

 _Almost there,_ Sherlock said to himself. John removed his tie and wrapped it around his fist.

“What happens if I kill you in your own mind palace, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted.

“Shall we see?”

John lunged for Sherlock. He wrapped his tie around Sherlock’s neck with brutal strength and tightened. Sherlock thrashed against John for a panicked second before he elbowed him in the face. John growled and flipped the taller man over his shoulder, then dragged him up against his thigh. Sherlock struggled to breathe, facing reddening. His vision was darkening around the edges. Sherlock reached behind him and wrapped his arms behind John’s knees and pushed onto his feet as hard as he could. They were flung onto the bed. Sherlock rolled off onto the floor and scrambled for the Sig.

Sherlock stood and aimed the pistol at John while he held the revolver at him. Sherlock glanced quickly at the paper as the flame died down, leaving less than half of it burned.

“What will it be Sherlock? Are you going to shoot me, or are we going to learn what happens if you die in here?”

“John, please, I am simply trying to help you. Moriarty has corrupted our data.”

“Data,” John chuckled humorlessly. “It’s all just data in here. I’m nothing more than a convenient file at your disposal. And here I thought the tears for Redbeard were real.”

“You killed my dog!” Sherlock screamed, gun shaking in his grip.

John smirked. “Maybe they are.” Sherlock shook his head. How he hated John’s steadiness.

“Go on, Sherlock. Show me who you really are,” John sang.

Sherlock ground his teeth together. He hoped that once he was rid of that dreadful memory, his mind palace would be settled, and John would go back to calling him “brilliant” when John in reality said nothing. Oh, how he hoped things would return to normal. He was reliving the nightmarish thought that John was Moriarty when he had stepped out from the shadows at the pool, but he knew otherwise. He was certain that this was not John, but Moriarty’s venom coursing through him. Sherlock had allowed himself to fear the man he loved, thus making a weak spot in his mind palace’s structure. Moriarty would not win.

Not even here.

John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock never heard it. The bullet had pierced the same shoulder John had been shot in back in Afghanistan. John’s hand faltered, and the gun fell to the floor. Blood spread across John’s long-sleeve. John reached for his shoulder with shaky fingers, eyes glazing over. Sherlock tucked the Sig in the back of his trousers and hurriedly took the paper. John continued to stand there frozen as Sherlock took another lighter from the hidden stash in the drawer and burned the last bit. He cautiously approached John.

“It hurts less than it did in the desert.” John’s eyes were teary when he looked at him. Sherlock crumpled to the floor. John knelt beside him and held his hand.

“There are not enough words in the world to properly express my regret. I treated you absolutely horrifically, and I am so sorry, Sherlock. I would never purposely hurt you. You mean everything to me.”

John was gentle in his examination of Sherlock’s wounds as he patched him up. When they stepped into the hall, the blood had disappeared. Sherlock closed his eyes. John nudged his shoulder. Sherlock opened his eyes to watch a tired Redbeard limp down the hall toward him. John kissed him on the cheek. “You’re brilliant, Sherlock, just brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect some good ol' smut in the next chapter


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John try to enter a new stage of their relationship, but Sherlock has managed to make everything more difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light smut in this chapter followed by more suffering :))))

Sherlock snapped his eyes open. Sweat drenched his curls and back. His stomach twisted hard, and he vomited all over the floor. He hung his head between his knees. Sherlock should be relieved that his mind palace was reset, and John was his excellent self again, but he felt like he had been beaten and thrown into the Thames. Sherlock touched John’s jumper to find it sweat-soaked. He found his mobile and opened three messages from John.

_Slow day at the surgery today. I might even say that I’m bored._

_I hope you’ve cleared Mrs. Hudson’s tray, or there will be hell to pay._

_I’ll be home in an hour. I miss you. -Sent 18 minutes ago._

“Shit,” Sherlock said to the skull on the mantel.

He turned on the shower and peeled off his sweaty clothes. When the water was scalding, Sherlock stepped in. He gently scrubbed the new injection point. The water was painful, but he needed to feel something different than the hollowness in his chest. He hung his head, letting his hair fall into his face. Tears flowed hot down his face and mixed with the water. He had almost lost a battle in his own head, and it had been Moriarty’s doing. He had managed to corrupt the things he loved most from the deepest parts of his mind palace.

Sherlock had to be stronger.

When John finally came home, Sherlock had done some washing, replaced the jumper in its rightful spot, and slid into his navy dressing gown. He was on his third cold case when John entered. John looked weary from a long day, but obviously had too much unspent energy.

“I’ve brought your spring rolls,” he smiled. Sherlock closed his file and stood to take the bag from John’s hands. John gaped at him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“It’s the first time you’ve helped me with the takeaway.” John removed his coat and placed it on a hook. “It smells like cleaner in here.”

“I’m trying to be more unpredictable,” Sherlock said from the kitchen.

John leaned against the table in the kitchen as Sherlock pulled boxes from the bags. “Being predictable isn’t always a bad thing.”

Sherlock glanced at him through his lashes. John’s heart fluttered.

“You never answered my texts.”

“I was thinking.” Sherlock was thankful that the cocaine had already made it through his system, but the light feeling was lasting. All he wanted to do was curl up in John’s smile.

 _Don’t be ridiculous. That is impossible._ Sherlock sighed to himself and opened a box.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

Sherlock picked up a warm spring roll. “I did not break my record today.” John smiled fondly at him and went around the table to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s thin waist.

“Maybe we can knock out more after dinner,” John offered. Sherlock shrugged. John pressed kisses along Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. “Or,” John started, leaning up into Sherlock’s ear, “We can try something different, if you’re so inclined.” Heat sparked in the center of Sherlock’s chest. He had wanted this before, didn’t he? He had spent nights in Serbia dreaming of John’s touch, and when he had returned and a relationship outside of John’s marriage bloomed, it was all he could think of. The cocaine had always increased his. . . _libido_ , even after he came down, and John’s suggestion had piqued his interest. Sherlock shivered at the thought.

Sherlock hurriedly shoved a whole spring roll in his mouth. He was actually incredibly hungry, but he was mostly trying to turn John’s interest away. John laughed and claimed his own box, immediately tucking into it. Sherlock was halfway through his spring rolls when John offered him a bite of his sesame chicken. Sherlock stared at the offered piece on the fork. John waited patiently. Maybe it was his chance to tell John that he certainly was inclined to accept his post-dinner offer. Sherlock leaned in and took the piece whole, dragging his mouth down to the tines. He finished his bite and swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. John’s mouth had fallen open. Sherlock finished his plate, licking his thumb and leaving it to linger in his mouth. John drank the last bit of his tea in one gulp and put down his mug a little too hard. Sherlock met his eyes with a suggestive lift of his eyebrow.

John swallowed hard and started tidying up. He gathered everything into the bin and put their empty mugs into the sink. He stood gripping the edge of the sink.

“So, are we going through cases or,”

Sherlock stood quietly and pressed the front of his body to John’s back. His partial erection pressed into the base of John’s spine.

“I rather liked the latter idea.”

John turned against Sherlock and pressed his mouth into Sherlock’s softly. Their kisses quickly became more urgent, pressing their bodies harder into each other. John reached in between them and cupped Sherlock’s aching cock. Sherlock gasped into the other man’s mouth. He slid away from John’s lips and licked and mouthed at the spot behind his jaw. John continued to palm Sherlock through his bottoms.

“Sofa,” John growled into Sherlock’s ear. A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine. They stepped backward awkwardly, keeping their hands on each other. John maneuvered Sherlock around the coffee table and into the sofa. Sherlock fell back with an “oof” and looked up at John standing over him, pupils blown wide. John removed his work clothing, leaving the crisp white undershirt, which was obviously newer than some of his other clothing; probably Mary telling him that he should replace some of the ratty shirts he’s gotten torn and bloodied over time in Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock scowled at the thought. She had begun to replace Sherlock’s memory with bits of herself.

He hated her.

Sherlock was glad she was dead.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, settling his hands on Sherlock’s knees. “What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock frowned harder. “I’m thinking about how long you are taking to touch me.” John’s grin spread ear to ear as he bent down to take Sherlock’s mouth again, lowering his knees to the sofa and straddling Sherlock’s hips. John ground his cock into Sherlock’s taut stomach. He licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth before leaning back to observe the flush high on Sherlock’s cheeks. His mouth was red and wet, and it was a rare thing to see: Sherlock’s composure broken. He had seen the smooth mask of indifference slip from is face at Baskerville and again, at his wedding. It had been the slightest change in his eyes, the sadness in which he looked at him, knowing that their time for a deeper and more intimate relationship had passed. John imagines that it was upsetting to Sherlock when he had to throw himself off Bart’s; he may not have seen his face, but Sherlock’s voice had wavered on the phone, the ball forming in his throat. John doesn’t want to think of that, though, and if he had a mind palace of his own, he would shove it away in the basement, because to him, to not be there for Sherlock when he was most vulnerable, was more painful than the gunshot to his shoulder.

John quickly came back to himself before Sherlock could notice that something was wrong. John kissed his way down Sherlock’s neck, sliding his hands up from Sherlock’s torso to slip his fingers just under the dressing gown at his shoulders, easing the material off.

Sherlock’s hand shot up to grip tightly around John’s wrist. John stilled against him, fighting his instinct to damage Sherlock’s hand.

“Is this,” John hesitated, “not okay?”

Sherlock released John’s hand and gazed sharply at him. “I do not want to be completely,” Sherlock glanced away.

John cupped Sherlock’s jaw. “Okay, that’s okay. You can keep everything on.” John thought for a little bit. Sherlock has always had delicate senses, which made him a great detective, but maybe too much contact was just that: too much.

Sherlock spoke before he could. “Too much physical input.” John nodded.

“How about I let you take in as much as you’d like?” John took Sherlock’s hands in his and brought them to his shoulders. “Set the pace,”

For the next few moments, Sherlock simply breathed, fingers hesitating over his skin. Touching John was never this difficult in the past, but this was different; his own skin felt feverish, and Sherlock worried that John could tell that he had used again. Sherlock pressed his fingers into John’s gnarled scar, feeling where the bullet shredded through the thick muscle underneath.

Sand fell from Sherlock’s careful fingers.

Sherlock was watching from a sniper’s nest, nestled in the Afghanistan rubble. John was hunched over one of his fallen mates, whispering calming words while pressing a roll of gauze to his chest. The shot rang out before Sherlock could register what had happened. Blood spilled down to the sand under his boots as he released the breath he had been holding. Sherlock glanced toward where the sniper was situated, but saw nothing but darkness in the windows. Trembling fingers reached out toward his and gripped tight. The young soldier at his feet had tears streaming down his temples. Sherlock would not let go of him. Wind carried sand into his face and stuck to the tears on his lashes. A sharp pain shot through him, and he was reminded of the pain he was trying his best to ignore. He glanced down at the soldier’s distant glazed eyes. A heaviness settled on his chest as he stood, spreading out toward his shoulders and squeezing at his neck. His heart stuttered; the Afghanistan heat smothered him. Sweat soaked the edges of his helmet, and he could hardly breathe. Sherlock undid his helmet and threw it to the ground. The howls of pain and commands died in his ears leaving a piercing ringing behind.

His heart clenched.

He closed his eyes against the blinding sun.

Hands gripped the sides of his face. His chest ached so much. He reached up and felt those familiar steady hands.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was no longer in the overwhelming sun, but back in his flat. A bead of sweat escaped his hairline. John pressed two fingers into his carotid artery.

“What happened, Sherlock?” John removed his fingers and sat next to him. Sherlock moved away from his warm touch. The sun had left his skin burning and feeling blistered. John tried to hide his frown, but Sherlock’s behavior had taken a total one-eighty. He had lost him the moment he had touched his scar, mumbling about the heat and the pain in his chest. John tried his best to snap him out of whatever thought he had delved into without touching him and adding to the flurry in his mind, but the straining muscles in Sherlock’s neck forced his hand. The moment John placed his palms against Sherlock’s cheeks, the faraway look in his eyes sharpened.

Sherlock stood suddenly, arms straight at his sides. “I’m not feeling well,” he stated flatly and moved toward his room.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. Sherlock stopped at the doorway of the kitchen. “Will you let me know if you feel any worse?” Sherlock hesitated. He had no right to worry John anymore, but the doctor would know if he was hiding any physical ailments from him. He nodded and proceeded to his room where he curled in on himself in the center of his bed.

John sat back against the sofa. He had allowed Sherlock to lose himself in thought again. He swore at himself. The whole point of them being physical was to get closer to one another and enter another stage in their relationship, but they only managed to worsen the distance. All he wanted to do was give himself to Sherlock, but how could he when the other man wasn’t receptive. Was he overstepping unspoken boundaries? Sherlock wasn’t exactly well-versed in expressing himself, so how could John possibly know what it was that was bothering him? Anger fisted John’s hands. Sherlock wasn’t telling him anything, and yet, it seemed like it was John who was to blame for their stagnant relationship. He was trying to move on from Mary, but Sherlock was being more difficult than usual. John could deal with Sherlock’s black moods when he was in withdrawal, and even the ones he had during the first couple of years living together, but this kind of behavior during an intimate moment was going to cause them problems that John never thought they would have. John knew that he couldn’t view their relationship through rose-colored glasses, but he had hoped that things would get easier once they managed to integrate each other into their lives once again.

He had been a fool.

John retrieved his shirt and faced the windows. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he was the way he was, and John shouldn’t be angry with him. He didn’t understand what was going on in Sherlock’s head, and he could hardly imagine what it’s like in there. John frowned at the bison skull above him. Sherlock’s skulls certainly knew more about him that John did.

Sherlock would need some time to reorient himself, and John hoped that he would let him know if he wasn’t feeling any better as he headed for the upstairs bedroom to change. He would need to take a long shower after this disaster. John was about to take his first step up the stairs, when his stomach twisted.

Something was _off_.

John’s gut was never wrong.

John stepped back into the sitting room and faced the windows once more, eyes scanning the room. He reached for his Sig just to remember that it was upstairs in his bedside table. John’s eyes landed on the stack of cold case files on the desk. Sherlock had said that he didn’t get through as many as he liked.

So, what was he doing that took up so much of his time?

John rummaged through the desk, opened his laptop to find it still on the lock screen, and let his hand linger on the haphazardly organized stack. Sherlock may not have the most organized method of file keeping, but this stack from Lestrade came together neatly. It was thrown atop the desk now. John glanced up toward the bison skull.

He knew for a fact that it did not lean to the right.

John stepped onto the desk and lifted the skull off the wall.

Sherlock’s door opened.

John peeled the vial out from the inside.

“My chest,” Sherlock started quietly, leaning against the wall. John turned to him, holding the skull by the horn in his right hand and the vial in his left.

Sherlock’s chest tightened even more. The slow way with which John’s eyes slid to meet his did not spell good things for him. The air in their flat thickened and weighed on Sherlock’s slim shoulders. Any words he had in his throat were caught in John’s calm stare. His pulse throbbed fast in his temple. John simply stood there, seeming seven-feet tall despite his compact frame; his knuckles were white around the horn. When John finally spoke, it was heard through layers of cotton. The blood rushing in Sherlock’s ears drowned out his words.

Sherlock knew that this was the end of their relationship.

It was the end of them. They would not solve crimes together. John wouldn’t leave gentle kisses against his skin or call him brilliant or even stay in the same flat as him. Sherlock had ruined it, just like he always did. John would call Mycroft, and he would be sent off to another rehabilitation center where they would question his mental stability and whether or not he really wanted to get sober again. Lestrade would ban him from crime scenes, and Anderson would be relieved to never have to submit to Sherlock’s wishes again. Everything would be taken away from him, and all because he needed an extra kick to rectify his mind palace. Certainly John would understand. It was his fault to begin with. He was the initial reason why Sherlock sought Victor in the first place. The rest just had to happen to clear Sherlock’s mind.

But all of those thoughts had died away into ash.

“I trusted you,” was all Sherlock could manage to hear before darkness overcame him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hopes John understands why he used again, but John is trying to overcome his own emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!!!!! I am so, so, soooooo sorry for taking this long to give y'all a new chapter. I had finals and I was trying to get my apartment cleared out to move, and I had senior year college shit to partake in and everything was so hectic! The homework and work never ends lol
> 
> Anyways, I hope this chapter is up to y'all's standards. There is definitely more to come.

Sherlock would never find out. That John was certain of. He could never know. It was hypocritical, yes, that John wanted Sherlock to divulge every aspect of his life, past and present, to him while he kept this a secret. It would burn a hole through his heart. The thick fog around his head would settle heavier on his shoulders.

When Sherlock’s body sagged into the wall, eyes falling shut, and dropped to the floor with a crack of his head against the wood, John did not immediately go to his side. Instead, he stood there and stared at Sherlock’s crumpled body. He could not come to terms with Sherlock’s dishonesty, and even though he really didn’t think Sherlock gave him everything, actually having it be true was no less painful. John wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he dropped what was in his hands and went to Sherlock.

The other man was breathing deeply, trembling slightly as John pressed his fingers in for his pulse.

John immediately called for EMS. Sherlock’s heartbeat was rapid and his breathing shallow. Tears stung behind his eyes as he yelled for Mrs. Hudson.

She ran upstairs in her slippers. “Sherlock,” she cried, “What’s happening, John?”

“He’s having a heart attack.” John rose and went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson just managed to get Sherlock to open his glazed eyes.

“Can you swallow, Sherlock?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John kneeled beside him again and placed an aspirin tablet under his tongue.

“What brought this on?” John didn’t answer Mrs. Hudson’s question, hoping that she would put two-and-two together.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed sadly into his palm.

When EMS arrived and hoisted him in, John stood out of the way on the sidewalk. Mrs. Hudson gripped his bicep.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going with him?”

“I know where they’re sending him. I’ll go there.”

“John Watson!”

John twisted his arm out of her grip and heading the opposite way of the ambulance. Mrs. Hudson climbed in with the paramedic instead.

He couldn’t go with him. Sherlock would figure out that John hesitated once he was treated, so John walked away from him.

John walked until his feet ached and night had fallen. Regency Park was empty when he found a bench to rest. He definitely made things worse by leaving Sherlock, but he couldn’t face him, not when he had lied. There was a good chance that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t allow him back into Baker Street, but she wouldn’t understand.  He thought that they would move past all the lying, but Sherlock wasn’t ready to fully commit.

Maybe John was the reason why.

It had seemed like Sherlock was ready to make the next step, but when they tried to, Sherlock stepped away. John thought that maybe his drug use was in the way, keeping Sherlock mentally preoccupied with whatever it was he was trying to piece together. Sherlock only used when he was trying to think through things, so what _was_ he trying to do in his head? John shook his head. He shouldn’t be sitting here thinking of the other man. He should be right beside him.

John rose to his tired feet again and nearly ran out of the park to the main street to call for a cab. When he arrived at the hospital, he began to argue with the nurse at the front desk.

“I _am_ the Watson that types up his cases!”

The nurse rolled her eyes. “Dr. Watson, even if that may be the case, Mr. Holmes is currently being treated and hasn’t been given a private room yet, so until then, you can wait patiently right over there.” John grit his teeth, but stalked over to a chair and settled.

Well, at least now Mrs. Hudson couldn’t say anything about him not being there for Sherlock. John berated himself for letting his anger and disappointment in Sherlock get in the way of his judgement. He should have been in the back of the ambulance with him, but how could he when the sight of him reminded him of the half empty vial hidden in their bison skull. Sherlock may be incredibly thick-headed when it came to people, but he must have known that John would not take a cocaine discovery lightly, and yet, he still hid it. John leaned his head against the wall beside him. Why was Sherlock making things harder? All John wanted to do was make a smooth transition from friends to lovers. He thought that it would be so easy, considering how close they were prior to John’s marriage, but Sherlock was being his usual self. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. How many times would they have to talk about themselves just to get a more intimate relationship going? John had stopped going to therapy. The last thing he wanted was to have to talk about his _feelings_ at home.

Maybe they shouldn’t have tried to pursue something more than the friendship they already had. John was pushing Sherlock into something he wasn’t entirely ready for. Maybe the best thing to do was to take a step back and reestablish their broken friendship. John let his eyes flutter closed against the bright lights of the hospital, not yet ready to take on whatever waited for him with Sherlock.

“Dr. Watson,” a female voice startled him. He stood groggily and listened to the room number she gave him before setting off for the lifts.

Outside of Sherlock’s room, he took a deep breath, knowing very well that Sherlock wasn’t the only problem behind that door.

Mrs. Hudson did not attempt to hide her glare when he entered the room and stood opposite from her on the other side of a sleeping Sherlock. John pushed back Sherlock’s loose curls from his forehead and caressed his temple. The doctor came in quietly.

“Cocaine-induced acute myocardial infarction,” he had explained, “most likely caused by very recent cocaine use. We gave him a benzodiazepine to reverse the cocaine’s systemic effects and nitroglycerin to aid in reducing vasoconstrictive properties. We’d like to hold him for the next forty-eight hours for recovery and observation. He will feel much better come morning.” They shook hands. “He’s quite lucky to have been brought in so soon.”

John took a seat in one of the stiff chairs in the corner. Mrs. Hudson rested her hand on Sherlock’s pale wrist. He tried his best to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s long dark lashes, but Mrs. Hudson’s cold gaze made it so much harder. John laid his head against Sherlock’s forearm and closed his eyes against the beeping of the monitor.

John woke to gentle fingers carding through his hair. He lifted his head to see Sherlock staring off toward the wall sadly. Mrs. Hudson must have gone to get herself some tea while he slept. John gently squeezed his fingers around Sherlock’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rasped, keeping his gaze steady on the wall.

“Don’t,” John started. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against John’s words. He was hoping to explain himself, why it was so important to use this one last time, and why he wouldn’t continue, but John didn’t want to hear it.

He never did.

“I want to explain.” John took Sherlock’s hand. “Please.”

“You should be resting.”

“John,”

“Okay, okay. Sure.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. He didn’t need to think about what he needed to say. What he needed was the courage to say it all. John sat nervously at his side, but thankfully didn’t try to rush him. Sherlock spoke toward the wall, scared to catch a glimpse of John’s reaction to what he was about to say. He hoped that John would manage to keep his body as still as possible. The hand in his would be enough to reveal how the other man felt about all this.

“I didn’t want to lie to you. I knew it was a dangerous decision, not to my health particularly, but to our renewed relationship. I was fully aware of what was at stake, and I proceeded nonetheless.” Sherlock closed his eyes again; the lights suddenly too bright.

“You know how valuable my mind palace is,” Sherlock stated. “After we made our amends, I quickly discovered a grave problem in my mind palace. Moriarty’s web had managed to capture you, or at least, the projection of you that resides in there. The Watson of my mind patrols the halls with his gun at the ready. He keeps Moriarty in his restraints.” Sherlock breathed silently for a minute or two. He hoped that John would understand. That was the only thing he wanted, really, was for him to understand why he made the choices he had. Sherlock didn’t care if he liked it. He was always going to do what he thought was right, but if John was incapable of recognizing the “why” behind them, then he would know that their relationship would never reach his idealized version.

“All of my files had been corrupted by Moriarty’s poisonous web. I had to enter my mind palace fully focused on the task at hand, and the only way to sharpen myself was to use again.”

“What was your task?” John’s question startled him. He had expected John to just sit quietly and take everything Sherlock said with a grain of salt, but again, he took him by surprise.

“To recover my initial data and delete what it was that was causing the corruption.” Sherlock adjusted himself higher on the bed and finally faced John. His weary face softened at Sherlock’s gaze, hand tightening around Sherlock’s.

“It had to be done while you were at work. I couldn’t have you around to see me sort through it all. Entering my mind palace was becoming riskier, and the longer I let it go, the worse it got.”

“What do you mean?”

“You,” Sherlock glanced away for a second before returning to John’s concerned gaze. “In my mind palace, you were as Moriarty: cruel and cold. I had to fix the data, or you would remain trapped as Moriarty’s minion. I had collected data that allowed Moriarty to worm his way in. I had to delete the file that corrupted you.”

“Which was?”

Sherlock thought quietly to himself. He couldn’t remember what exactly it was that allowed Moriarty’s venom to taint John’s memory, but he knew that he succeeded in deleting it. He was positive that it was for the best.

“I successfully deleted it.”

John knew. He knew what the memory was that Sherlock needed to delete. He was to blame for Sherlock’s hospitalization. It all pointed back to attacking Sherlock.

Was it abuse?

Had John become his father? His mother tried to escape it by drinking, but two alcoholics in the house was too many for his father, and she was hurt even more. Sherlock was trying the same. His mind’s John Watson had turned against him just as reality had done, and despite attempting to make up for it and show him that it was a one-time thing, only done out of anger for his wife’s betrayal, how could he have possibly expected Sherlock to forgive him so easily? John wouldn’t forgive him if things had been switched. Of course, Sherlock would have it stay in his head. He internalized everything and file it away in that brilliant head of his. Why would John’s anger and abuse be different? If anything, Sherlock would hang onto it longer, having it be associated with one of his closest friends and lover.

“Did he hurt you?” Sherlock’s eyes sharpened, unsure of the question. John wrapped both his hands around his. “I mean, mind palace John. Did he hurt you while you were in there?”

“He never managed to hurt me in previous trips into my mind palace. I was only there to retrieve information quickly. He was angry and violent, but we were separated by rooms he couldn’t get into, but he had strengthened over time. The longer that virus stayed filed away, the more belligerent he became. When I had reentered this last time, he knew why I had come, and he beat me to it.” Sherlock’s hand trembled in John’s. “I hadn’t even realized I had entered my mind palace. He had tricked me. I,” Sherlock paused. “I tried my best, but what is a detective to a soldier? I just managed to best him by exploiting a weakness of his. It was a lucky shot.”

“My shoulder,” John smirked. Sherlock looked away embarrassed; he never wanted John to learn that Sherlock considered his shoulder a point of weakness. Physiologically speaking, it had been compromised, but he never expected to reveal that knowledge.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “I don’t know how I can possibly make up for my mistakes. I won’t remind you of what it was I did, especially if it was deleted, but I know exactly what poisoned that amazing brain of yours. I can’t forgive my actions, just like I don’t expect you to, but I am going to do my best. That also means that I can’t allow you to destroy yourself like this. I can understand why you did it this last time, but I refuse to let you kill yourself. I have no problem forgiving you for lying, but please, Sherlock, don’t do this again. I can’t let you die from something so beneath you.” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

“Please,” John said. “I love you so much.” Sherlock turned his head to gently brush his lips against John’s cheek. He swallowed hard against his tightening throat. It wouldn’t help to get teary eyed in front of John now. Sherlock’s mouth drifted toward John’s where they met gently. John reached up to hold Sherlock’s head behind his ear. They kissed softly before a nurse came in to check Sherlock’s leads, two of which that had come undone while they snogged in his bed. Sherlock leaned back against the bed and let the nurse fiddle with the electrodes.

“How’re you feeling, Mr. Holmes?”

“Irritated,” he griped. The nurse laughed sweetly and retied his gown before taking her leave.

John switched on the telly and listened to Sherlock deduce the lives of each newscaster and meteorologist. Sherlock complained about the lack of tea when Mrs. Hudson walked in.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she greeted. “It’s so nice to see that you’re up.”

“What are you still doing here?”

“Can’t I keep an eye on you?”

“John is here.”

“He is,” Mrs. Hudson confirmed with a pointed look toward his direction. “I’ll be out of your hair in a few, Sherlock. I just wanted to see how you were doing once you were up.”

Mrs. Hudson tsked over the state of his bedhead and talked about all the goodies she would bake for him, mostly sugar-free, now that he had a heart problem. And maybe he should give up chasing criminals for a tad?

“I’m not geriatric,” he snapped.

“Well, you certainly need to take better care of yourself, even if you aren’t. We’re going to be living a healthier lifestyle now. No more late night cigarettes and takeaway.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And dare I say, no more tea.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock growled.

“Well, maybe we’ll simply switch to something less caffeinated. Now then, you need your rest. I’ll be off now.” She pecked Sherlock’s cheek and shuffled out. John was relieved to have her finally leave for the day. He could give Sherlock all the attention he needed without worrying that Mrs. Hudson was taking mental notes of his shortcomings. John kicked his socked feet up on the corner of Sherlock’s bed and opened a well-read magazine from the side table. Sherlock stared at the bed sheets over his legs. John tried to engross himself in the inane news of another celebrity scandal, but how could he when Sherlock was sitting right there, lost in his memories once again, and looking like a fallen angel. Sherlock’s messy curls had fallen in his face as he gazed unseeingly at himself, lips slightly parted. John smiled at Sherlock. He was going to be better, try to communicate better.

He was going to be the best version of himself for Sherlock, to not only make up for his past transgressions, but for the ones made by the Watson of Sherlock’s mind palace. He wouldn’t give Sherlock another memory that would ruin the safety of his mind again. When the world was too much, too much information, too many people, Sherlock escaped to the organized halls of his head, and for John to disrupt that peace, it was vile of him. It was something Moriarty would do. John was not going to give him more ammo to use against Sherlock, especially in his own damn head.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being released from hospital, Sherlock should be resting, but an unwanted visitor makes doing so difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrightyyyyy here we GO!!!!
> 
> To make up for my lack of chapter updates, here's a 2nd update for y'all, and HERE IT IS: THE SMUTTTTTTT
> 
> Just to make it clear, this chapter has vivid smut/sex scenes! Y'all know ;))
> 
> Let me know what you think! <3

Sherlock was required to take it easy and keep up with his medication. John had hoped that the next few days after his discharge would be quiet and boring, to say the least. Sherlock would be able to actually go through the stack of cold case files Lestrade brought him a while ago, but the familiar _click_ of an umbrella tapping in the doorway made Sherlock roll his eyes.

“Seems that you are in better health since your recent visit to hospital, brother mine,” Mycroft remarked as he entered the sitting room, making a direct line for John’s chair. John sat at the desk, tapping away at his laptop, and wished that he had stayed in his chair just so Mycroft would have to stand.

“Stating the obvious now?”

“Has all of your cocaine been cleared out?” Sherlock narrowed his stare. _Of course it has_ , Sherlock thought to himself. _John won’t stay if I lie to him again._

“You know the answer. You’ve got this entire flat bugged. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I suppose your relapse wasn’t enough for John to contact me.”

“It was none of your business.”

“Shall I remind you, Sherlock,” Mycroft aimed his mechanical glare at John. “That I see and hear all.”

Sherlock stood suddenly with his hands behind his back. “Get your head out of your arse, Mycroft. It was a minor occurrence and will not be happening again as the issue has been resolved. Now, if you please,” he motioned to the door.

“Can’t your brother visit you for more than a few moments,” Mycroft bit back.

Sherlock barked out a cold laugh. “You’ve got your driver waiting outside. You have no intention of being here for much longer. Don’t be so dull, Mycroft. It doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock leaned in ever so slightly, back staying absolutely straight. “Just like today’s waistcoat. Try revisiting your tailor to get it resized,” he whispered threateningly.

A wave of heat washed over John’s body. It was painful to watch the two Holmes brothers go back and forth, but Sherlock had years of practice and mastered the art of reminding Mycroft who the best Holmes was.

John may be a little biased.

Regardless, witnessing Sherlock’s wicked tongue was a major turn on. When it was pointed at him, well, that wasn’t so nice, but seeing Mycroft stand with a huff, adjusting his waistcoat and smoothing his immaculate pants, was certainly a pleasing sight. Shivers ran from the base of John’s skull down his spine.

“Try not to overdose, brother dear. It would upset Mummy.” With that, Mycroft _clicked_ down the steps out 221B.

Sherlock loosened his arms and stood tiredly in the middle of the sitting room. “He grates my nerves,” he muttered. John rose from the desk, abandoning his forgotten blog, and stood behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the taller man’s chest.

“You’ve been recently released from hospital. Just listening to your verbal sparring is tiring.”

“Well, we all can’t be idiots like you, John.” Sherlock froze immediately after the words escaped his lips. “My apologies,” he placed his hands over John’s on his chest. “I’m trying to lessen my insults toward you.”

“I certainly appreciate the effort,” John chuckled behind him. “Maybe you can make up the difference by insulting the Yard more.”

“Anymore and Lestrade might just keel over.” Sherlock turned in John’s arms and leaned in for a kiss. John happily obliged, gently taking in his lower lip between his teeth. Sherlock pressed his hips into John just above his belt. Their kisses grew more fervent as their hips ground against one another, erections brushing underneath too many layers of clothing. Sherlock slid away from John’s lips toward his neck, mouthing at the hot skin just below his jaw. John had no hope in stopping the sounds he was making, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind at all. It was rather encouraging. John let his hand drift down Sherlock’s torso to rest firmly on his erection. A moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth that went straight to John’s cock. Sherlock released his iron grip on John’s back and followed John’s belt to the front. He leaned back to meet John’s eyes, hands hovering over his buckle.

“John,” Sherlock groaned. John rubbed Sherlock through his pants, nodding with his eyes closed. Sherlock’s heart was beating through his clothes. It was all so much: the rasp of his clothes against his overheated skin; the firm press of John’s palm against him, sending sparks flying behind his eyes; the growing need in the pit of his stomach.

He needed more.

Sherlock hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it in John’s chair and tearing off his undershirt. John opened his eyes at the flutter of energy in front of him and quickly followed suit. He was about to undo his pants when Sherlock gripped his wrist. Without letting go, Sherlock lowered himself to his knees, still clad in his tented black trousers. He released John’s hand and placed both around his waist, breathing heavily. John didn’t know what to do with his hands, letting them hover just above Sherlock’s head. Sherlock nuzzled at John’s clothed cock. He mouthed at the hard line in John’s jeans. Sherlock could no longer contain his energy and made quick work of John’s belt and jeans. John could hardly breathe.

“Sherlock,” he rasped. “I need to sit down.” Sherlock jerked his head up to see the unsteady look in his eye and quickly rose to guide him to his own chair, quickly yanking away his shirt. John plopped down with his legs splayed. Sherlock stood nervously off to the side with his shoulders hunched inward and hands in front of his erection.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I just got a little bit dizzy is all,” he soothed. “You’re just perfect. Come here,” he motioned over. Sherlock sat on the arm of the chair, leaning down into John’s neck. John ran his fingers down Sherlock’s neck and whispered sweet words in his ear.

Sherlock enjoyed this part best: the sweet nothings from John. Being called “perfect” and “brilliant” made his chest warm. It made him feel pliant under John’s fingers. John caressed the delicate skin under Sherlock’s ear, feeling the other man melt deeper into his shoulder, and called Sherlock beautiful. John smiled against the side of Sherlock’s face. He was absolutely beautiful.

Perfect through and through.

He was still perfect as he slid from the armrest to the floor, resting his hands on John’s knees. Sherlock opened the front of his jeans, carefully reached in, and pulled John’s cock from his pants. The bite of the zipper’s teeth made John jerk. Sherlock yanked down his jeans with John lifting himself up. Sherlock resumed his nuzzling, taking in the heady scent of John’s crotch. It was inherently John. Cheap soap, sweat, and just, simply, himself was so incredibly intoxicating, Sherlock thought he would have to sit down next. He had gotten well acquainted with John’s smell over the years together, crushed up against each other in alleyways or bent over one another as knife wounds were stitched up. It was a smell Sherlock would bottle up and keep forever. Sherlock parted his lips and gave the head of John’s cock a wet kiss. John moaned above him.

Sherlock’s tongue encircled his glans, teasing at the slick slit. John whitekuckled the armrests; his chest rose and fell quickly, quivering with every swipe of tongue. Sherlock took him whole without warning. John had to fight the urge to buck up into his mouth when the head bumped the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock hollowed out his cheeks as he drew back. John glanced down to see Sherlock gazing up at him with dark hooded eyes. Sherlock loosened his grip on John’s thighs and guided John’s right hand to the back of his head, never releasing John’s eyes. John furrowed his brow questioningly, but when Sherlock dove back down harder, gagging rough, John got the message and tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, gently rocking into his mouth. Sherlock moaned, saliva dribbling down his chin and onto the carpet below. His knees ached and burned, but it only added to the airy, dizzy feeling he had as John cut off his breathing in short intervals. John’s pace quickened, and his grip in his hair tightened and pulled as John pumped into his throat. The heat in John’s belly was rising. He wasn’t going to last much longer. Not with Sherlock looking so debauched. Tears clung to the corner of Sherlock’s eyes as he coughed on spit and lack of air. John was climbing fast. He didn’t think he could last much longer.

“Sherlock,” John gasped. Sherlock readied himself as John shoved him down into his crotch, spilling himself down Sherlock’s aching throat, pulsating against his tongue. Sherlock swallowed obediently. He loved the taste of him, the salt on his palate. Sherlock reached down to pull out his own throbbing cock. John rode out his orgasm in Sherlock’s mouth, slowly thrusting once more before pulling out to watch Sherlock desperately jerk on his own reddened member. Sherlock’s bruised lips hung open as he thrust into his own fist frantically. He chased the taste of John. The thick coating in Sherlock’s mouth made him drool as he licked at it.

John couldn’t believe his eyes. The sight of Sherlock leaning back against his arm, fucking his own hand, sweat matting his curls to his forehead was an incredible image. John wished he had a mind palace of his own just to save this picture of Sherlock Holmes. No one else would get to see him like this. The flush across Sherlock’s cheeks and chest was a deep red. He panted hard as he reached his climax. Ribbons coated his abdomen and hand as his body trembled.

There was nothing in the room but the sound of their heavy breathing. Sherlock glanced over toward the door and burst out laughing.

“The door is still open,” he sniggered. “Imagine if Mrs. Hudson had walked in!” John joined in, feeling light-hearted and drained. When they stopped laughing, John tucked himself back into his pants and helped Sherlock stand on wobbly legs. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

“You’re amazing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock peppered the side of his face with kisses. “Angelo’s later?”

“Absolutely.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of Sherlock's past wounds had visible scars, but there was one that still gaped fresh and burning even into his adult years. Sherlock never once thought that it would happen. He had lived with that word all his life, but never could imagine John saying it to him. In the early stages of their friendship, he had dreaded the moment it would come out; a reminder to Sherlock that John was just like everyone else, but when it never came, he thought that it never would.
> 
> Yet again, he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!
> 
> I hope everyone is doing well!!! <3
> 
> Sorry for the long wait yet again. I promise I'll try to get chapters out faster and regularly. 
> 
> Kisses!!!!

Sherlock popped his medication after hearing John nag at him for the past three hours. He continued to pick at the sugar-free biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier. John had the day off from work and was pestering him to eat, despite not eating himself. Sherlock thought that John would have learned that he didn’t always have to eat, but Sherlock simply complied. Sherlock took note of the time- ten past one in the afternoon. Normally, it was Sherlock who spent his days off lazing about, but John was still in bed under the covers. He had risen long enough to irritate Sherlock, but then it was straight back to bed. Sherlock wondered if his emotional instability was returning. He had hoped that their new sexual relationship would keep it at bay, but with John seeming unlike himself, Sherlock had reason to doubt.

He was just sitting there fidgeting with the plate of biscuits when John could be thinking about God-knows-what! Sherlock pushed away from the table and entered their bedroom. John was snoozing quietly with the covers over his head. The sunlight streamed in brightly, bathing John’s sleeping form in grey light. Sherlock moved quietly to sit at the edge of the bed. He carefully eased himself along John’s side before lying beside him. John stirred when Sherlock pressed into his back.

“Sherlock,” John murmured sleepily. Sherlock nuzzled the back of John’s neck. John stiffened against him.

“Sherlock, I’m tired.”

“You have yet to eat.” Sherlock wrapped a soft hand around John’s shoulder. “You are constantly badgering me to eat, and yet you’ve done nothing but lay here,”

“Sherlock,” John growled firmly. Sherlock stilled. “I just want some silence.”

Sherlock kept as still as possible next to him, trying his best to give the peace John wanted, but all Sherlock could think about was if he had done something to anger him the previous night or that morning. He ran through his memories of the last several hours and could come up with nothing that John would classify as “Not Good.” The night before, both of them had reached orgasm and cuddled until they fell asleep, so that was no reason for John to be so cross with him. Normally, weren’t sexually active couples in better moods after successful intercourse? Sherlock worried at his lower lip.

“I can practically hear your gears turning.”

“They are not,”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, turning onto his back.

“I’m not understanding why,”

“I just want to be alone.”

Sherlock sat up. “But couples in sexual relationships do not usually require separation from their significant other, so I am concerned,”

“God, Sherlock!” Sherlock leaned away from John’s sudden anger. John fisted the duvet with his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s not that bloody hard to understand! I never bother you when you want to spend hours in your head. Why can’t you do the same for me?” Sherlock blinked hard once, unsure if he was imagining John’s irritation. He didn’t remember walking into his mind palace.

“You can be such a freak sometimes,” John muttered through gritted teeth.

Sherlock’s chest caved in.

He stood quietly from the bed, facing away from John. Tension dug into his shoulders. After spending so many years hearing that word, it never lost its bite.

“I,” Sherlock choked out an octave higher than intended, throat suddenly dry. “I never thought I would hear that from you.”

John had his eyes closed against the idiotic and regretful situation he had just placed himself in. He didn’t mean for it to come out; a thought like that would just normally stay hidden away in his head, but with Sherlock being so. . . Sherlock, it just slipped.

“I don’t know how I always allow you to hurt me.” John screwed his eyes tighter. Sherlock left the room and went straight to the bathroom, gently closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him. He sat at the edge of the tub and counted the cracks in the tile. There was not a single thought or memory that could fill the hollowness in his chest. Every positive memory was tainted with the echo of “freak.” It reverberated in his head and grated the inside of his skull. He squeezed his head, trying his best to physically snuff the word out, but he knew better. It would never work of course. He wasn’t an idiot.

But he was a _freak_.

Sherlock turned on the water faucet as hot as it would go, watching the tub fill, wisps of steam rising up and moistening the tile around. He removed his clothing and stepped in. The heat reddened his skin and was uncomfortable around his more delicate spots, but he submerged himself fully despite the pain. He kept his eyes shut underneath the water. He never imagined hearing that word come out of John’s mouth. Moriarty had never called him that despite his many flaws.

But John and Moriarty were completely different people.

John was average. Sherlock couldn’t help that he surpassed the norm by leaps and bounds. Rather than punishing him for his intellect and deductive abilities, John should praise him more than he actually does. All the times he’s called Sherlock brilliant and amazing is squashed by the thought that he still thinks he is a _freak_. When Sherlock’s lungs burned, he forced himself still for a few more seconds before sitting up.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” John said from the doorway. Sherlock kept himself tall and continued to stare straight at the faucet. John stepped in and sat on the toilet with a sigh.

“I was just angry. It’s just sometimes you don’t understand,”

“Another apology followed by a reason why everything is my fault,” Sherlock stated.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“I am very aware that human nature is not my strength. Mary made that very clear to me. However, I don’t particularly appreciate your lack of responsibility in this issue.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t want you to make it up to me,” Sherlock barked, finally facing John’s tired face. “I want you to never say that word to me again. Learn from this error, John, as I will not allow it to happen again.” Sherlock’s firm voice took John by surprise. Sherlock was more sensitive, but this wasn’t what he expected. He forced himself out of bed to calm a possibly teary-eyed Sherlock, but this cold-stare man was what he got.

“I think you should sleep upstairs.”

John gulped audibly. “For how long?”

“Until you understand why that word would upset me.”

“Well, I can tell you right now, why that would,” John said proudly. “Donovan calls you that, and you’re not very fond of her.”

Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded. He rose from the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock growled and exited the bathroom.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John regrets his words to Sherlock, but Sherlock isn't quite ready to forgive him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's kept up with the story so far and my scattered uploads! I promise I'm trying to get better :))
> 
> Here's to a new chapter! I hope y'all like it!

“John is still a man, Sherlock, and I don’t think I have to tell you how thick we can be,” Lestrade laughed, accepting the solved case files Sherlock handed him. “I doubt he meant to hurt you.”

“Then why say it?”

“People say things they don’t mean when they are upset.”

“I’ve never done that!”

“That’s because you say everything on that bloody mind of yours.” Lestrade sat back in his desk chair. “I know it must’ve been hard for you to share that with me, and I really appreciate that you came to speak to me about it, rather than going off on some binge or getting yourself into alleyway chases.”

“I was just bringing your cold case files, that I would have solved sooner had I not been so preoccupied with these tedious arguments with John. I did not come here to chat about my private life like wealthy old women.”

“And yet,” Lestrade smiled.

Sherlock stood to leave when Lestrade leaned over his desk to grab his wrist. “Listen, Sherlock. I know you’re mad at John, and I don’t blame you. I think you should definitely make him work to get back into your good graces, but I think you’ve got to help him understand. I know we always tell you that, but with John, I think it’s best. You two are good for each other when you communicate well.”

Lestrade released his wrist, but Sherlock didn’t bolt.

“How do you know?”

Lestrade smoothed his shirt. “So many years at the Yard has made me pretty intuitive.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

****

John stepped into the sitting room when the front door slammed shut, dressed for work. He had heard Sherlock cursing to himself in his regular flurry of motion downstairs as he hovered around his bedroom door, wondering if Sherlock could stomach being around him. John went into the kitchen to find it unsurprisingly cold and busied himself with making tea and tipping out a couple of Sherlock’s favorite ginger biscuits. He settled into the sofa and flipped through channels aimlessly.

“How could I ever love someone like that?”

John paused at the channel. The actress on-screen had tears streaming down her eyes, clutching broken pieces of china to her chest. She wailed hard with her back against the wall. John’s stomach turned, and he flipped the tele off. He checked his watch; he still had another hour before he usually left for work, but being here in the stuffy silence was too much, so he left and took the long way to the surgery.

The threat of rain loomed over John’s head as he walked. A young woman leaned against the wall of a café, coffee and umbrella in hand. She winked suggestively at John as he passed. There was hesitation in his next step, but he continued nonetheless. He was no longer a single man to stop at every wink and tongue flick sent his way.

Ahead of him, a homeless man huddled in blankets under a shop canopy with an upturned scraggly hat next to him. John reached into his pocket for some loose change. Just as he was about to bend to drop it in, the man glanced up at him with a steely glare.

“Not all wounds heal properly, Doctor Watson.” John gripped his change and straightened up. “You of all people should know that the wounds we don’t see are the ones that hurt the most.” The man rose to his feet, blankets falling to the sidewalk, dusting himself off. He wore tailored blue slacks and a light blue button down.

“Send Mr. Holmes my thanks for the job,” he waved off, walking across the street. John stared after him for a few more seconds before frowning to himself and continuing.

When John arrived at the surgery, Sarah greeted him like today was no different from all the other days, but John knew otherwise. Sherlock not being there in the morning was not something out of the ordinary, but the way they ended the previous day had set the mood for the following days. John entered his office and pushed aside his persona thoughts in order to treat his patients more effectively. It was going to be an incredibly long day, but he would have some time during lunch to consider how to properly apologize to Sherlock. It had been his fault anyway. He had turned the heavy darkness in his chest against Sherlock.

He had to make it right.

_*Lunch*_

John finally said goodbye to the last patient of the morning and threw himself in his chair. He ran his hand through his hair, feeling a migraine coming on, and checked his phone. There was only a message from Greg asking if he wanted to get together after work for a pint. John answered back with a “God yes.”

A knock sounded at the door before Sarah peeked her head in.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she said grimly.

Before she could even get to who it was, Sherlock barged past her and stood by the patient chair. John looked between them and thanked Sarah before Sherlock could say anything rude. Sherlock stood there with those goddamn cheekbones accentuated by that bloody coat collar.

“You can sit down,”

“I’d rather not.”

“Then what can I help you with?”

Sherlock stood there like a Greek statue, brilliant eyes narrowed toward the door. John didn’t try to move or draw Sherlock’s razor attention, so they stayed quiet for another five whole minutes before Sherlock finally broke the silence.

“Lestrade has informed me that I should communicate my feelings to you in order to better this relationship, so I am here to make my thoughts known.”

“As opposed to other times?” Sherlock glared at him with a disgusted scowl. John turned his cheek to Sherlock to ease the pain of that look.

“As you are aware, your use of,” Sherlock started.

“You don’t have to say it.”

“ _Freak,”_ Sherlock spat, “is not a word I appreciate. I have been advised to make you understand what it’s like for me to have that word said toward me. Unfortunately, I am not entirely sure how to do that.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Do you want me to help you with that?”

Sherlock growled to himself and made his way for the door muttering, “I should have considered my options longer.” John jumped out of his chair and grabbed Sherlock’s hips before he could completely exit the room. Sarah and the other front workers eyed them oddly. John pulled them back in and gently closed the door behind them.

“I think if you walk out now, we won’t get anywhere, so let’s try just getting something out, yeah?” Sherlock’s eyes had softened now. He was unsure, and like most things he was unsure of, he wanted nothing to do with it. John took a seat again and left Sherlock to stand by the window like a moody raven.

“The other kids in primary used to call me a freak. As I grew older and my knowledge expanded, the word was said with more venom by my colleagues.” John recalled the banker he had spoken to years ago. He had sat back in his chair and thought the world of himself while Sherlock searched for clues. Anger flared in John’s chest at the memory.

“Nonetheless, I had gotten accustomed to it, where even Sally Donovan’s use of it was not bothersome; but after my return, she had not really used it in my presence, and even though she may not have meant it in consideration, I appreciated it. I had thought that maybe I had finally proved to everyone that my intellect was nothing to fear. When I had met you, you were initially impressed by my deduction skills, so I never thought that I would hear that word from you.”

Sherlock finally turned to face John with a blank face. “But you did.” John looked away. How could he look at him knowing that he disappointed him- that he hurt him?

“I’ve not felt pain like that in years.”

“When was the last time that you did?”

“When I had to leave you.” John swallowed hard.

“Sherlock,”

“I’m done. I should leave.” Sherlock nearly sprinted to the door.

“Sherlock, wait.” He stopped and held onto the doorknob. “I don’t know why I keep hurting you. I can’t seem to stop myself from doing or saying things that hurt you. I don’t mean to, which I don’t know if it makes it worse, but I want to make things better.” Sherlock’s grip tightened as he lowered his head.

“You’ve become a great man on your own, Sherlock, and I don’t deserve you.”

Sherlock faced him once again, eyes piercingly cold. “For once, you’re right.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm ready for love and I'm ready for war  
> But I'm ready for more"  
> -Highly Suspect
> 
> Nothing seems to ever go right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: I added the Non-con/rape warning specifically for this chapter. I did not want to upset anyone, so I thought better be safe than sorry. There is drug-induced sex implied in this chapter, and Sherlock's decision to get in bed with a person may not have been done fully sober.

“He doesn’t love me anymore,” John slurred. Lestrade nursed his first pint across from him. There would be no way to get properly pissed knowing that John was already halfway through his third pint and near tears.

“We really shouldn’t be having this discussion in the state you’re in, John.”

“I told him I didn’t deserve’im, and he bloody agreed!”

“Well, you’ve been really awful to him, John. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t mean it!”

“I don’t know what is going on with you, and I’m sure it’s serious enough to make you like this,” Lestrade motioned vaguely to John’s person, “but whatever it is, it doesn’t excuse your actions. I know Sherlock loves you, but I think he’s making the right choice.” Lestrade took a long sip of his beer and watched John nibble on his lower lip from over the edge of the mug.

Lestrade wiped his lips. “He’s so quick to forgive you. He needs to be mad this time.”

“But I love him,” John murmured to himself.

“I know,” Lestrade sighed. He pushed away his drink. “Let’s get you home.”

****

Sherlock sat quietly tapping away at his phone in the corner of a Vietnamese restaurant. A bowl of chicken broth steamed in front of him. When eating felt like too much of a chore, he settled his anxiety with broth rather than cocaine.

At least, most of the time.

Sherlock placed his phone on the table and sighed at the wall. He had been without John plenty of times, but lately, it had felt different. The unease in their relationship has made the distance between them feel that much greater, but Sherlock couldn’t forgive him so fast. He wanted to, but he knew he shouldn’t, and even though Lestrade was sometimes an absolute idiot, he knew more about human relationships than Sherlock.

He brought a spoonful of broth to his lips and ignored the searing pain at the roof of his mouth. Sherlock lifted his phone again.

“Look who’s here.”

Sherlock ignored the voice. When he last saw him, things had not gone over well with John.

“Don’t ignore me, Sherl.” Victor sat down in the chair across from him, gently lifting it by the back so it wouldn’t scrape the floor.

“Why so morose, my dear friend?”

“I am not morose,” Sherlock spit.

“Sherlock,” Victor sighed gently. “Your face couldn’t possibly get any longer.”

“What do you want, Victor?”

“Really, Sherlock, I’m crushed! I just happened to be walking by when I saw that beautiful head of curls in the window.” Victor leaned in. “You know how much I hate seeing you alone.”

“I’m not-“

“Is your friend here? Your blogger?”

Sherlock did not answer and stared quietly back at him. “Hm, I guess not,” Victor said to himself. “Aren’t you lonely, Sherlock? Has he been mistreating you?”

“Don’t pretend that you’re interested in my well-being.”

“But I am,” Victor purred, reaching for Sherlock’s hand across the table. The clammy coolness of his palm made him flinch before it enveloped the top of his hand.

“Did you enjoy your usual?”

“I’m not doing that anymore.” Sherlock moved to stand, but Victor’s hand tightened painfully around Sherlock’s.

“Sit down, Sherlock, or I’ll tell your blogger of our little history together.”

Sherlock sat down with the fiercest glare he could muster. Victor smirked.

“How was the last batch?” Sherlock didn’t answer. “You taught me a lot of the chemistry behind making my own product, and can I just say: I’m making a killing,” Victor grinned.

“Do you want to try something fresh?”

“No thank you,” Sherlock hissed between gritted teeth.

“Are you sure? I’ve got some on me right now.”

“You’re lucky I do not alert NSY.”

“Go ahead Sherlock. Call them.” Victor leaned back into his chair with a soft smile. “I have more dirt on you than anyone would care to know, so by all means, Sherlock,” Victor flicked his tongue across his lower lip. “Call them.”

Sherlock recognized the situation he was in. He had been in it before many years ago. Victor had threatened to out his drug use to his family, and the only way out of that was to keep his mouth shut and do as Victor pleased. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. He never wanted to go this route again, especially not with him. Sherlock tried to smother the panic that tightened his chest, but the more he tried, the wider Victor’s smile grew. Victor reached into shirt pocket and held a small parchment package between his fingertips.

“Come then, Sherlock,” he whispered. “I’ll treat you better than your blogger ever could.”

**** 

“Will you be okay by yourself,” Lestrade asked as he dumped John onto the sofa. John laid his head back to slow the spinning room around him. The detective inspector went into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water and placed it on the coffee table.

“You might want to ease up on the drinking,” Lestrade suggested. “At least while things with Sherlock are a little rocky.” John rolled his eyes, and Greg had to push his smirk away. That eye roll was Sherlock personified.

“I’m-” John stammered, “I’m sure once we get back to normal, booze will seem much less appealing.” John hiccupped and let his head roll to the side.

Lestrade picked up John’s keys from the floor where they had fallen on their stumble in and set them next to the water with a sigh. “Don’t do anything stupid, John.”

“That’s Sherlock’s job,” John mumbled.

“Either way, rest up, and tell me how you feel in the morning, ya?” John hummed noncommittedly. Lestrade said his farewells and escaped the flat before he could find himself in the middle of something. Sherlock wasn’t home, which was not too odd, but since he had just deposited a stack of solved cases at the Yard, Lestrade figured Sherlock would be sitting upside-down in his chair or setting something on fire in the kitchen. He also hoped Sherlock wasn’t out getting shot at without him.

John sat there for thirty minutes before he rose to his tired and unbalanced feet and headed upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked. He used the wall to support himself as he ascended the stairs and undid his belt. He just managed to kick off his work shoes before collapsing onto the bed. He had not yet gotten used to the roughness of his sheets after spending most of his nights being spoiled by Sherlock’s rich 1000 thread count sheets. God, how he missed that bed and the way it smelled of Sherlock’s hair.

John lay in bed wishing he could just lie quietly next to Sherlock, hearing the cogs in his mind whirring busily and his gentle breaths. Sherlock was always careful to not breathe too loudly while John was trying to sleep. He was oddly considerate. John was thinking of Sherlock’s skin when he suddenly awoke, catching himself just before falling into a deep sleep. John sat up slowly and regretted that he didn’t think to bring the water Lestrade left out for him upstairs. He glanced over at the clock on his nightstand; it was just after three in the morning, and nearly fainted back into bed with joy when he remembered that it was the weekend and didn’t have work in the morning.

John padded down the stairs to retrieve his water and the bottle of paracetamol for his possible hangover. He had certainly sobered up, but was still feeling unsteady and sluggish as he stepped into the sitting room. John passed the kitchen and bent to get his water when he noticed that their door was closed. It was rarely closed. The front door downstairs was always locked by Mrs. Hudson before bed and by Sherlock if he made it in too late, and they both had guns and plenty of combat skill to ward off intruders, so they really had no reason to close the door…

Unless Sherlock was in a particularly bad strop and had to literally shut out the world.

“Sherlock,” John whispered aloud seeing that Sherlock’s coat and scarf were not in their usual place.

Maybe he had gone to bed to think through his mood?

John took a quick sip of his water before going to check Sherlock’s room. He stepped into the kitchen and was stunned to see a dark curly haired figure sitting hunched over at their table. The usual cool crispness of their kitchen was different, almost sticky warm from humidity. John’s eyes fell on the water dripping from Sherlock’s coat to the growing puddle on the floor.

“Sherlock,” John called out even softer.

Sherlock didn’t move. He remained hidden by his collar. John felt along the wall for the switch and flooded the kitchen with overly bright light.

Sherlock didn’t flinch when the lights glared down on him, just sat there in his wet clothing, feeling an aching chill throb through his bones. It wasn’t painful. Nothing was at that moment. John went around the table to stand across from him.

“Sherlock, would you look at me?”

He didn’t. He didn’t want to do anything now. It was so tiring to move. Why couldn’t John just let him sit there silently? Couldn’t he see that the world was spinning too fast to catch up? John sat down. He sounded tired. Was he sleeping? Sherlock couldn’t tell. He didn’t really want to look at John. John’s beautiful face would crack and split in sadness if he faced him. He didn’t want John’s face to change. Not because of him.

Sherlock wanted to see John’s face change, of course, but for good things like a solved case, fresh warm bread at Angelo’s, and when they would kiss. He wanted to see what his face would look like twenty, thirty years from now, wrinkled from laughter and worry. Sherlock wanted to see all that on John’s face, but without a doubt, he did not want to witness the sadness and disappointment he would certainly see once he faced him.

He and John had sat there in silence for what felt like hours. Sherlock thought that maybe John had fallen asleep at the table, and he could hole himself up in his room for the rest of the weekend, but the moment Sherlock looked like he was about to move, John stood.

“Sherlock, please. What’s wrong?”

The tone in his voice was different than what he expected. He imagined anger and frustration, but concern was not one of them. He should’ve known better. It was a doctor’s job to worry. Sherlock shook his head slightly and buried his face back into the darkness of his collar. His head pounded, and the aches over his body were sharpening into pulsating pain. The smell of his wet coat was making him sick. He should just throw it out and make Mycroft replace it.

John stepped closer to him and pushed down his collar. Sherlock was too weak to fight, to push John’s hands away. His own breathing sounded too loud in his ears. John gently cupped Sherlock’s jaw, fingers softly pressing into the sensitive flesh behind his ears, and lifted his face upward.

Sherlock’s pupils nearly engulfed the whole of his iris. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. It wasn’t that, however, that made John tighten his fingers ever-so-slightly around Sherlock’s head.

His swollen blue-black and red eye did.

Sherlock’s face was splotchy with broken blood vessels and bruises. John released Sherlock and bent down to observe his face closer. Sherlock tried to turn, to hide his face again, but John held his chin and bared his face to the light.

Other than the obvious abuse Sherlock’s face had suffered, John was looking at him at the peak of his high. He had witnessed the rise and fall, but never like this: the glazed-over distance in his gaze. Even though anger and frustration bubbled underneath his skin, he stamped it down. All he wanted to do was make sure Sherlock wasn’t dangerously injured.

"Are you feeling okay?" Sherlock felt his eyes slide to John's face. His mouth was dry so he didn't try to speak, but he wanted to tell him that he was fine now that John was with him.

“Right. Let’s get you out of this coat.”

John helped Sherlock to his feet, supporting most of his weight against his ribs, and pushed the coat from his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a heavy _plop._

The breath in John’s chest froze. He hadn’t noticed when Sherlock stood. He’d been so focused on his face.

How did he not notice the raised scratches across Sherlock’s bare chest, or hell, even the fact that Sherlock was shirtless? Sherlock’s abdomen was bruised and scratched more than he had ever seen. He had suffered stab wounds less gruesome.

“What in the bloody hell happened?” John grabbed Sherlock’s face again.

Sherlock flinched away. John kept his hands near Sherlock’s face and placed them slowly on his reddened cheeks.

“Can I look at you, Sherlock? I want to see how bad it all is.” Sherlock watched John’s mouth move. It moved so beautifully around his words. He could watch John talk forever.

“Your room,” Sherlock rasped. His throat burned with the words. He wanted water so badly.

John nodded and helped Sherlock toward the sitting room where he collected their spare medical kit and water that Sherlock immediately gulped down. Sherlock stumbled up the steps, but John held strong to him.

He always had.

Sherlock sat at the foot of the bed and fell back into the center, legs hanging down. John busied himself with removing Sherlock’s shoes and ignoring the sight of Sherlock’s back, decorated in marks across his old scars. When John warned Sherlock that he was going to remove his trousers, Sherlock jolted upward.

“I’m not decent,” was his only response to why.

“Sherlock, I’ve seen you arse naked. I need to see what else has been done to you.” Sherlock looked away toward John’s dresser. He wanted to rummage through it again and find that wonderfully scented jumper. John probably wouldn’t let him.

John followed Sherlock’s line of sight to the dresser. The last time he dug through it, he had noticed that a particular jumper had not been folded properly, or at least not to military standards, but he had thought nothing of it and simply refolded it. Looking at the lost gaze in Sherlock’s eyes, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and led him carefully to the drawers.

“Let’s get you something warm to put on.” John opened the drawer for Sherlock. The taller man peered in with a small smile and reached for the light beige jumper tucked under two others. He clutched it against his chest desperately and leaned into John’s shoulder. John rested his palm on the other man’s cheek, a tear rolling between his fingers. John pulled away to look at Sherlock as tears silently ran down his cheek.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

A sob ripped through Sherlock suddenly. John moved toward him, but Sherlock shook his head clear of the embarrassment, gathered himself and laid the jumper on the bed. He took a deep breath and removed his trousers.

Sherlock couldn’t meet John’s eyes as he stared at Sherlock’s bruised and battered body.

He held his breathe to steady his own trembling body.

John couldn’t see Sherlock anymore. All he saw were the darkening bruises and the raised slashes across Sherlock’s beautiful skin. Sherlock stared at his own feet. He wanted to know who had done this to him, but John couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t even fucking _breathe_. His trigger hand shook at his side. He itched the have his gun in his hand, because he was ready to kill the person that dared touch Sherlock like that.

But right now, there was something more important than his need to shoot that person between the eyes.

John rushed to Sherlock’s side and enveloped him tightly. Sherlock tucked his face into the crook of John’s neck. John needed Sherlock to know that he wasn’t mad or upset with him, that he would be there to help him sort things through. John smoothed Sherlock’s unruly hair.

“Please tell me what happened, Sherlock. Please.”

When Sherlock stopped shaking enough to breathe full breaths, he sat on the bed and slid the jumper over his head. John took the duvet, wrapped it around Sherlock, and sat next to him.

“There was someone from my younger days,” Sherlock began quietly. “We had grown up innocently together as children, but during our young adult lives, he had taken a different path from mine. Rather than let him go, I followed. We had a relationship through drugs and rough sex, but when Mycroft forced me into rehab, that ended as well. I had not seen him for years, but I always knew where exactly he dealt. When I would relapse, it was his product that I sought, and he never argued.” Sherlock lowered his face in his hands to breathe deeply. He wasn’t fully prepared to divulge this past with John, but the cocaine in his system made him loose.

“I had seen him recently when you found the vial in the skull and earlier today.”

“Sherlock, why?”

“I,” Sherlock faltered, “I didn’t mean to. He found me this afternoon, and he threatened to tell you of our past if I didn’t try the new batch he had made.”

“He makes cocaine?”

“The purest in London,” Sherlock muttered. “I taught him the chemistry behind it in uni.”

“It explains your distracted and dazed state, but what of the rest of you?” Sherlock rubbed his palms into his eyes until he saw black spots dance across his vision. John was asking so many questions. He had so much to say and just needed to get it all out first.

“The first hit was to relax me. I have done a total of three injections. The most recent was within the last couple of hours. As to why I look like this,” Sherlock frowned, “Victor has always had a particularly violent sexual past. I was just too lost in my own head to argue against feeding my own high.”

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. He thought that maybe Sherlock had been assaulted, but this wasn’t that, just a cocaine-induced disaster. It didn’t make it hurt any less though.

“I wasn’t expecting him to go so far. He had never marked me this severely.” John looked over the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. He had several gashes that would require a few stitches. He doubted Sherlock was feeling anything at all with his all-day bender.

“John,” Sherlock squeaked out. “Are you cross with me?”

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m not. I’m hurt that you would do this to yourself, but I’m more worried about you and what this man has done to you. My feelings are not important right now.” As John spoke, Sherlock looked away toward the wall and tried his best to contain the heart-wrenching sobs that threatened to rip through his throat. John placed his other hand over their joined fingers, and it broke him.

The sounds Sherlock made clenched around John’s heart. He never imagined Sherlock would breakdown like this, especially not in front of him, but whatever the damage Victor had done to him physically didn’t compare to what was happening in Sherlock’s head.

John had to be the soldier Sherlock needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if there are any typos! Again, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and there will be more to come! <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is doing his best to make Sherlock comfortable, but revenge is the only thing on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thanks a lot for keeping up with this fic and being so patient with my updates. I promise that the details of what Victor did to Sherlock will be brought to light, but patience my dear friends!

“There,” John said with a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. Every mark was covered in salve and the deeper ones stitched. Sherlock wore only a pair of thin pajama pants as John looked over his back. John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s wet silky curls.

“Are we feeling better, then?” Sherlock nodded and captured John’s hand against his shoulder.

“What would I be without my doctor?” John bent down to kiss their hands with a sad smile.

“The same man you are now,” he whispered against his fingers.

Sherlock took his hand away and stood, facing John with shoulders pinned back. “So then,” he said firmly. “How do we address this?”

“What is “this” exactly?”

“My infidelity.”

John stared at him for a bit. “Right.” He went around Sherlock’s chair to grab the other man gently around his bruised hips.

“I trust that you won’t do something like this again.” Sherlock nodded. “I have not been the best to you, so I will excuse your actions as a lack of,” he cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips, “judgement. Let’s chalk it up as part of your relapse and work to be better together. I don’t want you to be hurt.” John held both of Sherlock’s hands to his lips.

“Not by me or anyone else. Understood?” Sherlock nodded with wide eyes. He had expected John to fly into a rage and hunt Victor down with military precision, but he had not imagined he would react to his injuries with such care, especially under the circumstances in which he received them.

“We need to have you tested.” Sherlock frowned. “For my peace of mind.” Sherlock agreed and pressed his forehead to John’s.

“I apologize for speaking to you in the manner I did at the surgery. I was angry.”

John shook his head. “You had every right to be, but let’s move on from that. I forgive you, and I’ll do everything in my power to deserve the Great Detective.”

Sherlock smiled. “I love you, Dr. Watson.”

“I love you, Mr. Holmes.”

John took it upon himself to make Sherlock the biggest fry-up he could manage and a nice steaming cup of overly sweet and creamy coffee. He had gone downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had any fresh sweets to Sherlock’s liking.

“Of course, dear,” she smiled, handing over a tray of lemon tartelettes and ginger biscuits.

Upstairs, John had the windows to the sitting room open, a humid breeze flowing in and warming Sherlock. John had lent him an older jumper that he didn’t mind getting salve on to save Sherlock’s posh silk clothing, but he was still cold. The bath he took was painful. His body ached as he sunk into the warm water, feeling every lash on his body sting. John was hesitant to leave Sherlock alone in the bath, but Sherlock assured him that he could manage by himself. It would give him time to thoroughly wash himself of the dried semen between his thighs and cleft of his arse.

****

Victor had made sure that the damage to his skin would not go unnoticed. The marks to his body weren't that obvious, especially hidden by his coat and shirt sleeves, but there would definitely be some prying eyes looking at his face. John had held gel packs to his face to reduce the swelling, but the rest would have to go away with the healing process. He stared down at the deep purple-black tracks on his forearms. Those were the worst, Sherlock thought. John had always seen Sherlock battered and bruised, but these were a different set of bruises- not the ones to bear with pride after a long chase.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, John had his medical kit out to clean and treat the worst areas of Sherlock's skin. Afterwards, John set down their breakfast plates. Sherlock took a careful seat and gladly accepted the hot mug of coffee from John. John checked the stove before taking a seat next to Sherlock.

“How're you feeling after your bath?”

Sherlock cut into his fried egg and shoveled it into his mouth. He hated a cold egg and how the yolk coated the roof of his mouth. He'd much rather scald his tongue than have to eat it below body temperature.

“I am feeling much better. Thank you.” John knew how he felt; he was a doctor after all, but Sherlock was aware of the standard “bedside” manners that John must be accustomed to providing his patients, live-in or otherwise. John continued to carefully observe Sherlock as he inhaled most of his plate. A little more than halfway through, Sherlock reached for a handful of ginger biscuits and pushed those into his mouth ungraciously. John ate his breakfast with less gusto than Sherlock and was impressed with his cooking skills despite having a long night with both Lestrade and Sherlock. While Sherlock chewed hastily on biscuits, John reached out to softly rub his thumb over the black bruise around Sherlock’s eye socket. Sherlock froze for a moment before easing his face into John’s hand.

“I want you to rest today. No cases or crime scenes for you.” Sherlock was about to protest, but one look at John’s face said otherwise. He was right, really, so he nodded once and went back to his biscuits. John kissed his cheek gently and said he would be right back before running to the linen closet to grab a spare duvet for Sherlock to keep around his thin body. John made sure Sherlock was still devouring biscuits before he pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

_What can you tell me about a previous classmate of Sherlock’s? I just know that his name is Victor and that he may have a criminal record._

John switched his phone to silent and put it back into his pocket, grabbed the duvet, and went back out into the sitting room. Sherlock was placing the cleared dishes into the sink and stood at the entrance of the kitchen looking sickly pale against his deeply colored bruising and marks. John laid the duvet on the couch and held his arms out for Sherlock. The taller man looked shy as he walked into his open arms, wrapping his own around his torso. John kissed his face as softly as he could, breath ghosting past the worst breaks in his skin, and held Sherlock close to him. Sherlock’s curls smelled wonderful against John’s neck as he stroked the back of his head. John swore he could hear Sherlock sniffling, but rather than point it out, he left the other man alone to not embarrass him. John slowly eased themselves to the couch and wrapped Sherlock loosely in the covers. John was looking for the remote to the tele when a familiar voice greeted Mrs. Hudson downstairs, followed by quick footsteps up to their door.

“Sherlock, a man has been found dead in-”

Lestrade almost comically skidded to a halt at the threshold of their flat once Sherlock turned to face the DI. In that moment, Sherlock had forgotten what he looked like dressed in John’s old jumper and looking like he had just come back from the dead for real this time.

“What in the bloody hell happened?” Lestrade asked John rather than Sherlock.

“Deductions gone awry,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. Lestrade glanced back at John for confirmation; the doctor nodded.

“Well, can you two come and check out this murder scene? There’s not a single trace of blood, and the body smells heavily of gasoline.”

“Finding it difficult to fingerprint?”

Lestrade sighed, “Unfortunately.” Sherlock whipped his head toward John with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. John narrowed his gaze at him.

“We just talked about this,” John began.

“Please, John.”

There were plenty of beautiful things about Sherlock, but what John loved the most was the pure excitement and glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes when there was a case to be solved or a body to be looked over. John was sure that if he had been in better health, Sherlock could solve the case purely off the details Lestrade gave him, but Sherlock wanted to be there behind the yellow tape- he needed to feel like his normal self, calculating and whip-smart. So when John finally agreed to go along with Lestrade, Sherlock nearly popped his stitches leaping so quickly toward his bedroom to change.

John pushed the sleeves of his dark-green plaid shirt higher up his forearms and went to Lestrade’s side.

“Did you read my message,” he whispered.

“I was going to ask what it was about, but I figured Sherlock was not in the know.” John nodded, turning his body to keep an eye out for Sherlock. Lestrade crossed his arms.

“When I found Sherlock strung out in a dirty alleyway all those years ago, the only thing he asked for was this guy named Victor. When he sobered up, he refused to say any more about the guy, but when he placed his call to bail him out, I copied down the number he rang. I’ve had that number saved in his file for years.”

“You’ve got a file on him?”

“Sherlock? It’s the biggest one I’ve got.”

“I need to find out where this guy is.”

Lestrade gave John a stern look. “What do you want with him?” John glanced over to Sherlock’s room where his shadow danced across the floor beneath the door.

“I need to take something back from him.”

“John, if he’s stolen something-”

“It’s not like that,”

“Then what is it?”

John stared at his friend. God, he wished he could tell Lestrade everything that had happened to Sherlock, but it wasn’t that easy. John needed to take back the dignity and confidence Sherlock lost with that fucker. Sherlock may be able to feign his apathetic confidence, but John knows that it’s not truly there. Not in the way Sherlock holds himself against John’s body, or the way he hides his tears. Sherlock may not be in touch with his emotions enough to reveal them out in the open, but John could tell when something was upsetting Sherlock. It took him a few years to figure it out. All those times ignoring the sad smiles and longing glances made him hyperaware of nearly every change in Sherlock’s face and demeanor. He needed Sherlock to feel like his regular self, and he was willing to do everything in his power to make it happen.

John faced Lestrade. “I need you to trust me.”

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh. “You know, you’re just as bad as him. I’ll trust that you won’t do something illegal?”

“I’ll keep my nose clean,” John smiled. “Mostly.”

Lestrade was about to say something snarky, but Sherlock bounded out of his bedroom with his air-dried coat swinging around his shoulders.

“Come along, John,” he called, running down the steps. “Lestrade, we will follow.” The only thing John could do was shrug when the DI rolled his eyes toward him. John hoped silently that Sherlock would be adequately distracted with the case to give him enough time to plan out just how badly John was going to hurt the bastard that marred his gorgeous consulting detective.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All seems back to normal, but John's got plans for revenge.

“It’s obvious that his ex-fiancé ordered a hit on him. Now, she must’ve not known that the hitman she hired was an absolute amateur, because I can think of at least five hundred thirty-nine ways of killing and successfully disposing of a body, and this is not even a remotely successful method.”

Sherlock was on a roll with his deductions. Within ten minutes of inspecting and sniffing the body, he had solved it like it should have been so obvious to the others, but of course, it wasn’t, and Sherlock nearly shone with the chance to explain why everyone was an idiot but himself. Sally Donovan hadn’t had the chance to call him names today as she was so busy staring at his face. Other than a few twinges of pain seen across his face, it seemed like Sherlock forgot about his bruised body. He did find it difficult to crouch down beside the body as his thighs pulled tight, but other than that, most of the pain he felt was nothing compared to the giddiness he felt investigating the body.

“Well then, we should finish off the paperwork back at the yard, rather than waiting for Sherlock to be in a suitable mood later on.” Sherlock threw a sharp glare at Lestrade, but the other man just shrugged. John simply hovered around the detective and peppered Sherlock’s deductions with praise. He was utterly impressed with not only Sherlock’s spitfire deductions, but his ability to pretend that everything was perfectly fine as if his body was not covered in plum-colored bruises and lacerations. John tried not to think so much about every single cut he had to treat. Sherlock could easily read John’s face and the thoughts going on behind it, so John kept his thoughts on that beautifully quirked mouth and correcting his irritable mood.

Sherlock rose to his feet and nearly dislocated his shoulders with the dramatic full-bodied sigh he let out. “You always want me at the Yard, Lestrade. Is this some way to get me to stay within your watch? Afraid I’ll do something _illegal_ ,” Sherlock growled.

Lestrade rolled his eyes impossibly hard despite the growing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’re acting like a child, Sherlock,” he jabbed. Sherlock’s mouth opened in angry retort, but closed it as soon as John cleared his throat in warning.

“It’s possible that I just don’t need you returning to the Yard and causing trouble with my officers. At least now, you’re here, and they don’t have to stay to tolerate your insults.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in a bitter scowl. “I say, Lestrade, your ex-wife must be really irksome that you believe you can speak to me that way.”

“Sherlock,” John hissed between gritted teeth.

“If anyone is being irksome, it’s you.” Sherlock pressed his lips together and wheeled around on his heels, coat flaring out like a deathly cloak behind him, and stomped toward the main road.

“Sorry, mate,” Lestrade exhaled when John looked his way before running after Sherlock.

“Why are you being so rude to Lestrade?” John called after Sherlock.

Sherlock whipped around so fast that John couldn’t stop himself from bumping into the taller man. “Rude? He’s the one who called me irksome!”

“You did bring up his ex-wife. You know that’s a sore topic for him.”

Sherlock looked down at his own feet and crossed his arms behind his back. John hooked his finger around Sherlock’s belt loop.

“You’re just not used to Greg being able to bite back at you.” Sherlock threw his arms down.

“Oh, what do you know?”

John pulled him closer, faintly aware of the eyes on them from the center of the crime scene. “I know that you need to take a breather. Lestrade doesn’t seem to be in the mood to let you steamroll over him.”

“I don’t know what bloody reason he has to be in such a mood,” Sherlock murmured with a pout.

“He’s got his reasons, and it’s none of our business, so before you go about deducing him,” John smiled when Sherlock’s drifting gaze refocused on him. “Just drop it.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Fine, but I’m going to complain about it back at the flat.” John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s frown.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

****

“I had one of the guys run the number.” Lestrade passed a folded piece of paper into John’s palm, while Sherlock spouted the fine details of the case to Sally Donovan.

“The address is on there. I also included where I found Sherlock all those years ago.”

“It’ll help narrow down my search.”

“I’m going to ask again: what is it that you’re looking for?” John let his gaze fall on Sherlock’s broad shoulders, steady despite the quick and angry movements of his head and hands.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” John said flatly.

“You know that doesn’t make me feel any better. I think you’ve proved time and time again that you’re the one the Yard should worry about.”

John huffed, “I’m harmless.” Lestrade stared at him, but said nothing more. He trusted that John wouldn’t take whatever it was he was doing to the extreme, but to walk the battlefield with Sherlock Holmes meant that he was just as mental as the detective. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to answer a call because of the ex-soldier.

“What are you two doing chatting about like hens? You’ve got work to do, Lestrade.”

Sherlock led the way out of the station and waited for John by the kerb. “What were you two discussing so intimately?” John stopped behind Sherlock’s right shoulder and tried to see his face, but he kept turning away from John’s gaze.

“Nothing in particular.” Sherlock continued to ignore John’s concerned eyes. “We were just talking about how ridiculous you look with your collar up.” Sherlock whipped his head around toward John with an ugly scowl. John knew what they looked like with Sherlock looming over him like an angry shadow, trying to intimidate him with his height and icy glare. John was unfazed, however, and couldn’t help but smirk at him. It might work on other people, but there was nothing that Sherlock could that would make John flinch away from him.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you jealous?” Sherlock jerked ramrod straight and crinkled his nose.

“That’s something for the common man.”

“Well, if it doesn’t apply to you, then you don’t need to know what Greg and I were-”

“Tell me!” Sherlock’s voice carried down and across the street. Pedestrians made a wide birth around the heated man. John grabbed his hand firm enough to make sure he didn’t bolt. Sherlock yanked at his arm and settled after a couple tugs.

“I was telling Lestrade how much I love the way your hands speak more than your mouth; how beautiful your hands look as they move.” John took Sherlock’s hand and pressed his lips to his palm just below the calluses from years of playing the violin. Sherlock glanced around anxiously. He didn’t care if his relationship with John was made public; he just didn’t want the world to see John this way. Only he was allowed to see the gentle side of his captain.

John settled his other hand on the junction between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. “I’ve nothing but praise when I speak to others about you. They already know you can be a right arse, so why should I reiterate the obvious? There’s no need to be jealous. You’re the only bloody madman I could possibly want.” Sherlock’s frown smoothed out. His stomach twisted at the sight of John’s sincere smile. For a second, Sherlock forgot all the awful things that happened the night before. There was only happiness in the future of John’s eyes, and the past felt centuries ago.

“Let me take you out to lunch.”

“You don’t have to do such,” Sherlock began.

“We’ve not been on a proper date. I want to do this.” John kissed the sharp edge of Sherlock’s jaw under his ear. Sherlock’s skin prickled at the heat of his mouth.

“Very well,” Sherlock sighed, defeated. “But I don’t want to try anything new.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't the type to walk into battle not knowing what to expect, so when he leaves the flat in search of blood, he's going to get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here y'all are!
> 
> This is what we've wanted: the ass kicking of a lifetime....  
> with some smut sprinkled in.
> 
> Let me know what y'all think! Kisses!!

Sherlock and John crashed through their flat door in a tangle of coats and kisses. Sherlock’s mouth tasted heavily of katsudon and saké as John flicked his tongue across Sherlock’s. In a rush to get out of their coats, heating up too fast for comfort with a bottle of saké in their system, the two separated and removed their coats and shirts hastily. Sherlock’s deft fingers managed his clothes faster than John, and he impatiently assisted John with his layers, mouthing at John’s neck at the same time.

John was finally shirtless. Sherlock ran his hands over John’s perfectly stocky body. He loved all of it: freckles, scars, hard muscle, and the softness in his belly. Sherlock adored John in the skin he was in. Sherlock trailed his fingers over John’s warm skin as he walked over to his chair. John turned to follow him, unsure of where he was going. Sherlock sat sprawled in his chair; the bulge in his trousers was unmistakable. John stood there feeling uncomfortably aware of his hardening nipples in the coolness of the flat.

“I want to look at you,” Sherlock spoke in a thick baritone. His arousal was obvious in the syrupy drawl of his words. John didn’t know what to do with himself, so he turned his palms out and stood as still as he could in front of Sherlock. The detective’s eyes didn’t dart across his flesh like other times, assessing all the things he could from various parts of John’s body, but glided slowly over him. When Sherlock’s eyes dragged back to meet John’s, the doctor kicked off his shoes and worked the button of his jeans. Sherlock’s eyes didn’t stray even at the sound of John’s zipper dragging down.

The intensity of Sherlock’s gaze made John’s cock twitch. Those eyes were undeniably beautiful. John wanted to wake up to those gorgeous eyes every day for the rest of his life. John smiled to himself at the thought.

John was about to lower his pants, when Sherlock whispered, “Wait,” and dropped to his knees at John’s feet.

“Can I?” John nodded.

Sherlock ran his palms from the backs of John’s calves to the tops of his muscular thighs, slipping his fingers under John’s boxer briefs. John’s body heat burned under his hands. Sherlock removed his hands and danced his fingers across the band of his pants. John breathed heavily above him as Sherlock’s face neared his crotch. Sherlock gently pulled John’s pants down, catching at his thick erection and had John step out of them. John’s cock bobbed up toward his stomach. Saliva flooded Sherlock’s mouth, but he gathered his composure and ran his hand around to the back of his thigh from between his legs. He reached up toward the full and muscular globes of John’s arse and rested his palm at the lower curve of John’s spine. Sherlock breathed heavily into the pelvic bone of John’s body, moistening the base of John’s cock with gentle licks. Sherlock turned on the balls of his feet so that the back of his head rested against where his thigh and crotch met. John squeezed his eyes shut at the feel of Sherlock’s silken curls against his cock. When John could breathe again, he glanced down to see Sherlock gazing at him with darkened eyes.

John ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair to his cheek. Sherlock turned ever-so slightly till he could lick the tip of John’s middle finger from the corner of his mouth. Gently, Sherlock sucked in John’s finger. John’s cock throbbed hotly in the mess of Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock eased his other hand down the cleft of John’s arse. A moan escaped John’s lips. His heart beat quickly in his chest watching Sherlock suck on his finger like he was starving for it.

“Sherlock,” John moaned. Sherlock let go of John’s finger with a _pop_ and without pause, took in John’s stiff cock. John gasped loudly at the sudden temperature change and dove his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sucked on him with one finger teasing the tight pucker of John’s arsehole while his other hand wrapped around the base of John’s hardness and followed the rhythm of his mouth. John didn’t want to reach orgasm so soon, but Sherlock’s tongue was absolute sin around his cock.

The buildup in his lower belly grew. “Wait, Sherlock,” John cried.

Sherlock pulled off John’s cock. “What is it,” he rasped, lips swollen red and slick. John urged Sherlock up by his arms and kissed him hard until he was dizzy from oxygen deprivation.

“Bend over in your chair,” John commanded. “Steady yourself on the back.” Sherlock’s brain was foggy with John’s stern voice. He loved hearing the steel in it. Sherlock imagined being in John’s company back in Afghanistan. How would John speak to him? If he acted just as he did now, would John have to punish his insubordination? Would John make him clean the latrines with his toothbrush like in those ridiculous films, or would John order him to run around the base until he vomited his stomach up? The quiver in Sherlock’s knees hurried him to bend over at the waist in front of his chair and grip the back so he wouldn’t collapse from the thought of John, dressed in his military fatigues, watching Sherlock run through his punishment. He imagined that John would be a fair captain, and Sherlock would have no reason to be angry at him for being reprimanded.

Behind him, John held Sherlock’s sides with kisses to the base of his sweaty spine. Sherlock was still wearing those goddamn expensive trousers of his. How Sherlock moved as he did in them was a mystery to John, but God, did his arse look just delicious. John reached around to the front of Sherlock’s hips and undid his trousers. John cupped Sherlock’s erection through his undone trousesr, eliciting a strained sigh from the taller man. John yanked down both Sherlock’s trousers and pants in one swift motion and left them to gather at his ankles. John eased Sherlock’s legs as wide as his trousers would let him and caressed the bruises across his back. Sherlock’s breaths quickened as John’s hand hovered over the worse of his whippings.

Neither of them had brought up how Sherlock had gotten the straight open wounds that cross-hatched his body. Sherlock was thankful for that as much as he was for John’s gentle hands now. The bamboo switch Victor had used on him left bloody red welts across his skin. Every time he would hit the same spot again, Sherlock’s skin would split and burn, but with the cocaine coursing through his system, every hit felt intensely orgasmic.

John slid his cock into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock groaned at the feeling of his own saliva drying between his arse cheeks as John pumped his cock between them, breaths huffing over his overheated skin.

“Come across my back,” Sherlock growled. John’s hands tightened on Sherlock’s hips at the thought, but there was no way he would with Sherlock’s body in the state it was in. John held some semblance of self-control enough to know that it was Not Good to ejaculate across Sherlock’s open wounds.

“Sherlock, your skin-” John was chasing his orgasm quickly.

“Do it, John!”

“No,” John bellowed, pulling away from Sherlock’s body and orgasming hard into his fist with a growl. His jaw was clenched so tight, he thought surely his teeth would break. When the aftershocks eased, John reached for his undershirt and wiped his hand. Sherlock stepped out of the binds of his pants and straightened up to see John side-eyeing him.

“I’m sorry. You were right. I forgot.” John looked over his body and couldn’t help but grin.

“You look ridiculous apologizing with your cock out like that.” Sherlock gripped himself and closed his eyes.

“C’mere, you bloody madman.” Sherlock nearly rammed his body into John’s to get at his mouth. John held Sherlock by the neck and reached for his aching erection with the other hand. Sherlock’s heart hammered away inside his chest. He unlatched his mouth from John’s and stared into the other man’s eyes. The hand at his crotch kept working him. Sherlock’s heart stuttered, not for the orgasm that was rising, but for the kind stoicism in John’s gaze. Sherlock would never love someone else. He couldn’t possibly find someone who came close to John.

John Watson was a contradiction that Sherlock could never quite figure out completely. Most people had motivations for all of their actions, but John usually just did as he pleased. He was a dutiful soldier when he needed to be, but if that was all people saw in him, they were missing the best parts of him. The public saw Sherlock’s sidekick, the tired-looking blogger in a jumper, but John was a living weapon, and it was bloody wonderful. Sherlock had originally thought that his hectic life was the battlefield John craved, but it was always there in him. War waged behind John’s eyes and in the way his hand trembled doing mundane tasks. Give the man a pistol, however, and he’s been returned part of his body. John was just as addicted to things that killed him as Sherlock was, but unlike Sherlock, John was perfect despite it.

A tingling pleasure jolted through Sherlock’s spine. He opened his mouth in a soundless gasp and clutched onto John’s arms for balance. John swiped his thumb across the slit again and enjoyed the way Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy. John twisted his hand around Sherlock’s cock, changing the rhythm to a slower, more firm speed. Sweat gathered at Sherlock’s hairline and just above that lovely cupid bow-shaped mouth. John leaned in and flicked his tongue across his upper lip. Sherlock tasted salty mixed with just the slightest hint of an unscented moisturizer. Sherlock threw his head back, exposing his gorgeously pale neck for John to suck and lick as he pleased. John was an inch away from Sherlock’s throat when he noticed a fading bite mark under Sherlock’s jaw. Anger flared in John’s chest. No one would have Sherlock other than him. John made a mistake not making it clear to the world that Sherlock Holmes was his. John ground his teeth before licking a stripe up the front of Sherlock’s throat and sucking a mark onto his Adam’s apple.

One last twist of his wrist around the head of Sherlock’s cock had the taller man hollering John’s name into the silence of the flat. John soothed the fresh bite mark with gentle swirls of his tongue.

“You’re so bloody gorgeous,” John muttered into his neck.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Sherlock laughed.

“Want to deduce the contestants on that new reality show?”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Only if we can stay like this.” John looked down at himself and his still half-hard cock.

“Deal.”

****

With Sherlock gently snoring away on the couch, John rose from his light doze and stumbled to where his jeans lay crumpled in a heap on the floor. He put on his bottoms and quietly went upstairs.

John unfolded the piece of paper Lestrade had given him with the address. He quickly dressed in a new undershirt. As he dressed, his hand did not waver. John smirked to himself and went to retrieve his Sig from the side table next to his bed.

With his coat on, John wrote a quick note for Sherlock and left it on the coffee table where he hoped he would find it. It wasn’t that late that it would raise suspicion, but John definitely needed a good excuse to disappear for a couple hours, and Sherlock knew how much time his trips to Tesco took. John made sure his mobile and handgun were tucked away before leaving the flat.

Once inside the cab, John considered all the different things he would do to _Victor_. John could envision emptying an entire clip into Victor’s limbs and pressing the hot muzzle to his face, branding his skin like he did to Sherlock. He wondered if the bastard would run once he pulled out his gun, or would he have his own? He was a drug dealer, so it was quite possible. The man in John’s mind was faceless. If anything, John looked forward to seeing his face, and the kind of man that Sherlock thought was worth hurting himself for. John watched the young men and women casually drink and chat outside pubs and restaurants as the cabbie drove by. At that age, John was finishing up his medical degree, counting the days until he could enlist in the army. He doesn’t look down on these kids for enjoying their lives, not like many bitter people his age. They had every right to enjoy themselves, because at any moment, it could be taken away. John only wished that they find their purpose for living. He had thought that his reason for living was the military, but after being invalided home, he realized just how quickly it could change, and he hoped to death that these kids would find a new one quicker than he did.

“We’re here, mate,” the cabbie called. John handed him some bills and exited the cab. John had originally thought to go to the address that was tied to the number, but owners change, and the last thing he wanted to do knock down the door of some scared family. He had asked to be dropped off some ways away from the alleyway where Lestrade had found Sherlock high and emaciated. John stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and headed for the darkness he knew he would throw himself into head-first.

John stepped into the grimy shadows.

It was a different world from the alleys he normally found himself in when he was with Sherlock; he knew his way through them, and the sound of Sherlock’s shoes pounding the pavement in front of him was grounding.

But here, there was no Sherlock.

John could only see an image of a strung-out and withering Sherlock curled in on himself by the wall, shivering in a dirty sweatshirt. His hair would have been long and stringy after going unwashed for so long. He would smell of vomit and sweat. John glanced down to see scattered used needles and broken glass bottles.

He was in the right spot.

“You needin’ somethin’, mate?” The hair on the back of John’s neck rose on end. John looked toward the direction of where the voice came from and squinted at the man in the hoodie leaning against the wall, mostly hidden in shadow. John realized that he had come to a drug spot, and normally someone coming here would have every intention of buying drugs…

“What can I get for fifty?” The other man laughed obnoxiously- a nasally sound that grated John’s nerves.

“You’ve come to the wrong place, mate? I only sell the purest shit in London.”

_The purest_ , John repeated in his head. _It’s him._ John’s heart jumped. He itched for the gun at his waist.

“Oi,” the man called. “You look familiar.”

“I get that a lot.” John stepped forward. “How about fifty and my watch?”

“This in’t the pawn, friend. If you’re lookin’ for the cheap shit, it in’t here. I suggest you leave.” John frowned. The accent in which the man spoke with sounded forced, almost what most people associate England with- just slightly comical.

“I’ve heard good things about your product. Who are you to turn down a paying customer?”

The hooded man stepped away from the wall and neared John. John didn’t lean away when he stepped into his face.

“You’re the blogger, aren’t you?” Victor stared at John’s stern face for a second longer before grinning from ear to ear, his fake accent completely dropped. “You are!” Victor took a step back and extended his hand out toward John. “What a pleasure it is to meet you.” John’s eyes didn’t waver from Victor’s young-looking freckled face. He looked at least five years younger than Sherlock, but if they had gone to university then surely they were around the same age.

Victor dropped his hand. “Hm, I suppose you’re not actually here to try the best cocaine in the area. Well, what can I do you for then, brother? Any friend of Sherlock’s,” Victor’s grin grew into a vile sneer, “is a friend of mine.”

“Stay away from him.”

“Oh, goodness! You can’t possibly keep us apart. We’re so bloody perfect for one another.” Victor leaned forward. “Does that make you angry, John Watson?” John gritted his teeth. He could kill the fucking bastard. It would be so easy here in this alley. He could slam his head into the brick wall, causing a major concussion and definitely confusion. It would give him enough time to move him further into the alley where he would break every bone in his body and every tooth in his mouth.

“Hmmm, so you are, huh? Did you not like the way I sent Sherl back to you? Would it make you feel better if I told you he enjoyed it?”

When John pointed his Sig at Victor’s face, he expected the gun aimed back at him. What he didn’t expect was the cheerful look on his face.

“I like you, John, so I’m going to give you a chance to right this wrong,” Victor said behind his gun. “Return back to your home and forget about this alleyway.” Victor neared John, keeping his sights trained on the center of John’s forehead, “but when I want Sherlock, I’ll have him. He’ll always be mine as long as I’ve got my coke and my cock.”

John could no longer hear his heavy breathing or the blood rushing in his ears. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears that reminded him of being back in the arid desert of Afghanistan, where the air was hotter than the dirt. John didn’t want this to happen now, but what did he expect when he went out looking for him? John knew exactly why he was out here.

Victor had no time to react. John slammed his wrist against the wall and disabled his arm with a grueling twist of the shoulder. John turned and swept out his feet from under him. Victor fell to the ground with a heavy _crack_ against his head. John tucked his gun into the waist of his jeans and stepped on the man’s knee with his whole weight. Bone cracked and ground beneath his trainer. Victor’s eyes widened and his lips tightened, but he never let out a scream. John felt three times as larger than the man below him. It was clear who was in charge, but Victor dared to challenge that.

“Do you want to know what we did together? Do you know how he likes it?” John grabbed his good arm and dislocated that shoulder as well.

“He likes it raw,” Victor growled through the pain. “He doesn’t need any prep. I like to just ram my fucking cock in his arse and let him scream through it.”

John threw himself down, straddling Victor’s abdomen, and landed three solid punches to his mouth. Blood gushed from his gums. John couldn’t feel anything but the rage burning a hole through his chest. He yanked on his hair and knocked the back of his head into the pavement. Victor tried to fight back by throwing his body around, but John only broke his fingers and hammer-fisted his chest. The other man’s breath rushed out and left him gasping.

“What did you do to him?”

“Are you man enough to hear it?” Victor yelled. Finally, a reaction other than sick glee. John stuck his thumb in his eye until Victor begged for him to stop.

“Fine, fine. We shot up together. I tied him up, whipped him, and fucked him. Every time I thought he was sobering up, I shot him up again. Is that all you wanted?” Victor was yelling at the top of his lungs now, so John covered his mouth with his hand and bent close to his face.

“You’re going to regret the day you ever met Sherlock Holmes.” John punctuated his sentence with a hand to Victor’s throat. John gathered himself and Victor up to their feet and held him against the brick.

“Count out for me.”

“Count wha-” John’s fist to his face interrupted him. John eyed him expectantly. Tears sprung to Victor’s eyes; blood dripped from his nose and mouth.

“One,” he croaked.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With blood-stained hands, John can't think of anyone but Sherlock, even Lestrade can see it. Sherlock comes to the realization that he and John will always go into battle hand-in-hand, so why the wait?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Thanks for continuing this fic with me!  
> Sorry for the time in between this update. With Hurricane Harvey and a death in the family following right after, I've been busy and not really in the mindset to write. But, I'm back now! I hope you like the new update!

“What a happy coincidence,” Lestrade sighed, blue and red lights illuminating his face. “You save the day even without Sherlock.”

“What can I say? I wasn’t going to let some lunatic pull a gun on me.”

“Self-defense then? I’m still going to have to take a statement.”

John rolled his eyes. “I just need to make it to Tesco before it closes.” Lestrade frowned, but motioned John over to join him at their car. Emergency lifted Victor’s unconscious body into the back.

“I’ll take you. You can give me your statement on the ride over.”

John sat in the car, staring out the front window as the DI drove. Lestrade glanced over at him from time to time, but he was a little nervous to ask what exactly had happened. It would be off the record for his mate’s sake, but he was hesitant to know the depth of John’s rage.

“He’s going to need a lot of time in hospital to heal. You did a number on him, John.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t going to let him pull a gun on me.”

“Right,” Lestrade dragged out. He could seriously use a smoke right now. “I hope they collected all his teeth. Do you know anything about that?” John turned his bloody hand over in his lap. His knuckles were torn on his left.

“No. I don’t think he had them when he approached me.” Lestrade pulled into the parking lot of Tesco and cut the engine.

“Look, John. I’m going to do my best to protect your arse on this, but you went too far. I thought you were going to control yourself. That’s excessive force if I’ve ever seen it. I’ve seen hit-and-runs with less damage. What is going on?” John didn’t answer. Of course he wouldn’t. John was a man of few words when it came to personal issues.

“Does it involve Sherlock?” John’s nostrils flared slightly.

 _There,_ Lestrade thought. He had picked up enough of Sherlock’s deduction skills to notice little signs like that.

“What happened with Sherlock?” John couldn’t sit there any longer and bolted out the car. Lestrade jumped out after him.

“Why won’t you tell me, John? I care for Sherlock too!” John stopped mid-stride and turned to the DI.

“That motherfucker hurt him, and I wasn’t going to let what he did go unpunished. Pure and simple. Don’t make it more complex, Greg.” Lestrade took in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. He knew that’s what John did to most criminals that managed to get their hands on Sherlock, but it was never like this. What he saw back at the scene was not like any other time.

“How bad?”

John rolled his eyes with a grimace. “How bad what?”

“How bad did he hurt Sherlock?” John’s face evened out, and in that moment, John seemed ten years older. Whatever it was that happened, it was killing him.

“If I hadn’t called you, I would’ve killed him.”

They stood there in the middle of the parking lot, letting John’s words sink in. Lestrade was grateful that he was called. He was certainly aware of the illegal acts both he and Sherlock did, but without any concrete proof, there was no way he could even consider them suspects. It was a perk of having a friend in law enforcement. So, for John to call him after what had gone down with Victor Trevor, he knew that John had taken it as far as he could. Lestrade thought back to Sherlock’s bruised and cut up face. Was that what John was referring to?

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure you two are safe from the law. However, you’re not making my job any easier.” John smirked to himself. Lestrade was a good man, and John hoped that one day he would repay him this kindness.

The bright lights of the store buzzed loudly in John’s ears. Lestrade said he should probably pick up a few things for another long night at the Yard and went his own way. John was thankful for the ride, especially after exhausting himself so much. He flexed his tender forearm as he held the basket at his side. John went straight for the milk that always seems to run out way too soon in their flat. The dried blood on his knuckles glowed under the fluorescent lighting as he reached out.

John could see the small tooth-wide gashes in his knuckles from Victor’s mouth, and fuck, the way his skin reopened when he clenched his fist tight enough gave him cool shivers through his spine. The adrenaline left his hands shaking, but John thought every tremor was worth the trouble. His pistol was electric against his skin; aiming his sights on a target always left it feeling like a living thing, vibrating with energy.

John glanced up into the mirror at the corner and almost laughed at the lack of injury to his person. Victor lost the fight as soon as he withdrew his gun. Hell, he lost the fight as soon as John showed up.

 _What’s a skilled soldier to a drug dealer_ , John thought. Had John decided to give him a chance, maybe he would have landed a couple of licks, but those who put their hands on Sherlock didn’t deserve a chance. As soon as someone is able to lay a hand on the detective, John knows that they are certainly worthy of getting the dog shit kicked out of them.

_What’s a drug dealer to a monster._

John scowled at his reflection. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t think that of him if he found out.

 _When he found out,_ John corrected mentally. He may not know how John hesitated to call emergency when he passed out, but the wounds on his hand were obviously from fighting. There was only so much John could keep from Sherlock.

So, would he think of John negatively after learning about Victor? Would he be upset? And if he was, God forbid he be upset for Victor. John shook his head and went into the next aisle. Sherlock wouldn’t come to Victor’s defense. He was sure of it. They were trying to mend their relationship; siding with Victor would only widen the gap between them.

John closed his eyes and leaned his head against the edge of the top shelf. His head spun with too many thoughts. He was overthinking. The only thing he should be worrying about is getting home to Sherlock.

****

Sherlock woke to an empty flat and the tele flashing brightly at him. A quick trip to the loo led him to where he was now: tears spilling down his bruised cheeks. Sherlock gripped the edges of the full basin. Frustration flooded him. He dunked his face into the cold water. The sudden urge to breathe burned his lungs. The water burned at his nerve endings. Images of John’s gentle smile and dark eyes raced through his head. Sherlock wanted to give everything to him. He wanted to give himself, mind and soul, to John. He would fall on his knees before him and give him anything he asked for. Most people would say this was unhealthy, but he and Sherlock’s dynamic, friendship or otherwise, had never been conventional, so it’s safe to say that societal standards didn’t apply to them. He and John sacrificed life and limb for each other. There was nothing else they could do for each other.

Except…

Sherlock lifted his head out the water, gulping in air as quickly as he could, before patting his face dry. He went into his bedroom to pull on a clean pair of bottoms and returned to the sitting room. Sherlock was about to reach for John’s laptop when he noticed a note on the coffee table.

_Gone to Tesco. I love you. -JW_

Sherlock smiled to himself. He loved that man and all his little idiosyncrasies: the ridiculous way he typed with his forefingers; the blank stare he had when he didn’t understand something; or, how old he looked when reading the newspaper. It could be annoying sometimes, but it’s what made him up, and Sherlock thought John was absolute perfection.

Instead of flicking through questions and “cases” on his blog like he had originally planned, Sherlock held the computer on his lap and stared at the infomercial on the tele. The feeling of John’s laptop slipping from his fingers woke him from his unsuspecting drift. He placed it on the floor and threw himself onto his side on the couch. With his eyes closed, his mind palace materialized, and John sat in his chair with a knowing smile.

“What?”

“You know what.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “When are you going to ask? Now that you’re a romantic, I mean.”

“I don’t know when. I would hate to ask Molly for advice on such a matter considering she has not been in a successful relationship since I have known her-”

“You’re rambling.”

“I’m unsure.”

John let his eyes close. “What if I tell you that it doesn’t matter how you say it as long as you do say it?”

“Intonation makes-”

“Sherlock,” John laughed, “just ask. Don’t make a big production. I’m a simple man.”

“A simpleton maybe,” Sherlock grumbled to himself.

“I’m going to overlook that considering how bloody gorgeous you look lounging over there like some Greek statue.”

“Now look who’s the romantic.”

“You bring out my more poetic side,” John chuckled. “Consider it, Sherlock. It’s for the best.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again at the thought. Maybe it was time to ask John. It was bound to happen, so why push back the inevitable?

Sherlock dreamt of warm tea on a winter morning and the way the heat radiated through his palms. It was a dream of soft grey light and maroon jumpers. Sherlock wanted to stay in that dream land, but they never stayed that way. Dreams turned into nightmares he had already lived through.

Boiling water was poured over the gashes across his back. He fought against the tears at the corners of his eyes. The Siberians could smell weakness a mile away, so the last thing he needed to do was show it. Sherlock understood their language, but when their sentences were dotted with English, Sherlock had to pause his internal translation. His capturers didn’t speak an ounce of English.

The man behind him walked in front of him. Despite looking like a soldier, his slumped shoulders suggested otherwise as he held up a syringe to the spot between Sherlock’s fingers.

“You’ll love this,” Victor whispered into his ear.

The pinprick jolted him awake. John poked his head out of the kitchen.

“All right there, Sherlock?”

Groggily, Sherlock smiled and sat up. “Just a dream.” When John dipped back into the kitchen, Sherlock spread his fingers and frowned at the dark punctures between his fingers.

“Sherlock,” John called out. The detective hummed. “I picked up some crisps if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not.”

Sherlock clenched his hands. Once again, he would have to start over. But what made this time different was John. Yes, he had been there for the other times, but this had a different taste. No longer was John’s disappointment directed at him. Sherlock was the victim of the situation. Now, whether Sherlock thought of it as a good thing or not, he couldn’t decide, because he still had some conscious decision in going along with Victor; but, at least John was no longer angry at him. He didn’t want to do anything that would upset him. At least, not on purpose.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to John, realizing he was sitting hunched in on himself like a scared child. He pushed back the thoughts and rose to his feet. John stared at Sherlock’s lithe figure, almost predatory in the warm glow of the lamps. Sherlock stood with his hips forward and stomach slightly concave with a razor-edge gaze. The sudden shift from soft to… _this_ made John’s head sway. When Lestrade had dropped him off, he found Sherlock in a deep sleep. It was the only time Sherlock looked remotely approachable. Even when he was pretending to be someone else, he always held a sharpness in the way his mouth moved. There are plenty of people who can feign sincerity, especially in the eyes; Sherlock could do that without a problem. It was changing the way that your mouth moved that was difficult, and Sherlock could never quite get that pompous frown to completely even out, so seeing Sherlock asleep, face slack and tender, made John’s heart swell. This figure, however, tense and prickly, was something John didn’t particularly enjoy.

“How was Tesco?”

“Crowded.”

“The milk?”

“I’ve brought it. Something to make for dinner tomorrow too.”

“After work?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Thinking about tomorrow?”

“Aren’t I always?”

Sherlock straightened his back and lined up his feet. John kept his breathing even. Sherlock’s various poses were like an instruction manual full of boldly typed warnings.

“Why were you fighting?” John licked his bottom lip instead of answering. “You’ve not been drinking, and it wasn’t at Tesco, because you’ve got fresh dirt stains on the edges of your shoes. Besides, you can’t have a proper row with a chip-and-pin machine, can you,” Sherlock punctuated with a tilt of his head toward John’s abused knuckles.

“Slower than I expected,” John murmured as he approached Sherlock.

“By how much?” Sherlock growled.

“I thought you would have sniffed it out the moment you opened your eyes.”

“My brain must be dying from all the tele you make me watch.”

“I don’t make you do anything. That’s the problem.” Sherlock held his palms out for John’s hands. The calluses on his trigger finger and heel of his palm grazed his own and sent a shudder through his shoulders. Sherlock gingerly caressed the edges of his swollen knuckles with his thumb. He brought them closer to his face so he could carefully smell how old the blood on his hands were and count the number of eight millimeter (roughly) gashes there were. Sherlock inspected the blood under his thumbnail.

Sherlock released John’s hands. “Your gun.” John eyeballed Sherlock’s calm face as he reached into the back of his jeans and handed over his Sig. Sherlock turned it over in his hands, looking for blood anywhere on the gun, and giving the muzzle a hard whiff.

“I suppose you didn’t kill him.”

“I did not.” Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement of John’s words.

He snapped the gun up to the center of John’s eyebrows. John’s skin pressed under the muzzle.

“What did his face look like when you aimed it at him?”

“He was cocky.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “They always are.” He turned the gun in his hand; John slid it back into the waistband of his jeans, warm from Sherlock’s grip.

“How many teeth did he lose?”

“All but a couple of molars.”

“Did he get any hits in?”

“Not a one.” Sherlock gazed fondly at John.

 _What a bloody dream, you are,_ Sherlock thought.

“You said that aloud,” John sniggered.

“I don’t think I did.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

“Maybe you’re a mind reader.”

“Why don’t we test it out? What am I thinking, then?”

John stared into Sherlock’s cool stare. He loved the way the ice in Sherlock’s eyes warmed in these little moments between them. No one would ever get the pleasure of seeing Sherlock’s unadulterated warm heart. He wished he could get a taste of Sherlock’s mind. John always wondered what it was like inside his head. Is it beautifully organized like Sherlock makes it seem, filing data away like a large hard drive, or what is as chaotic as he was?

John shrugged. “I guess I’m not a mind reader. What was it?”

“Well, if you’re not a mind reader, I don’t want to willingly divulge the dark secrets of my mind to some everyman.”

John stared at the other man for two more seconds before leaving Sherlock in the sitting room to reenter the kitchen. Sherlock was left wide-eyed.

“Don’t you want to know?”

“Not really,” John said flatly. Sherlock was easy. The moment he thinks you’re not that interested in what he has to say, the more likely he is to spill. Sherlock whispered something from the sitting room, but John was too preoccupied opening a bag of crisps to drown out Sherlock’s attempts to get his attention.

“John,” Sherlock exclaimed. John’s heart skipped. He abandoned the bag to face Sherlock’s hidden eyes. With his head bent, Sherlock’s curls hung over his face. John glanced around to see that no one had suddenly entered the flat.

“What I was thinking about-” John rolled his eyes and was about to turn back to the counter when Sherlock’s trembling voice continued.

“I want-” He paused. _Try again,_ Sherlock chided himself. John was waiting; the concern on his face was growing. John was never really good at pretending to be patient.

Sherlock’s heart was aching in his chest. At that moment, Sherlock wanted to take John’s Sig and pull the trigger at his temple. This was a lot harder than how it seemed on the tele. Mind palace John made it seem so easy. For fuck’s sake, his chemistry education was easier than this. Sherlock was too scared that he would choke on his words if he tried to steady his breathing, so he stood there with his lungs burning from the strain and his hands trembling at his sides. He didn’t know if he would get another chance like this. When he saw his reflection, rather than turning around the other direction, Sherlock decided to take the plunge into the deep end. He had to get used to the man he was becoming, but he had no doubt that he needed John to be by his side through it all. John was the head as he was the heart. He kept Sherlock’s emotions in check and ran into the fray, no questions asked. Sherlock would never be whole again without him.

John took a step toward Sherlock’s quivering body, but Sherlock spoke against it.

“Let me do this!” John was taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden anger, but stopped nonetheless.

“How about I try again?” Sherlock jerked his head up. John pointed to his own head. “Think it, and I’m going to try to read your mind. Keep saying it over and over.” Sherlock didn’t understand what fool thing John was trying to do, but he closed his eyes and thought over and over, chanting in his head like he was reciting a prayer. John smiled to himself. Sherlock’s hands moved at his sides. His thoughts never managed to stay in his head; John just needed to wait until they reached his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes darted behind his eyelids. He watched every image of what was about to happen flash through his head, but there was only one image he wanted to become reality, and there was only one way of seeing this thing’s end.

Sherlock let out a long held breath and finally met John’s overly worried face.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, “will you marry me?”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending the boys deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoooo what's up
> 
> thanks to everyone who has kept up with MoD and thanks a bunch for being so patient w my updates!
> 
> i hope this chapter makes everything worthwhile :)
> 
> kisses!

_“There’s no place for you here.”_

_Tears streamed freely from Victor’s eyes. He pleaded and pleaded, but the pain in his face was making it fucking hard. John stood next to his head in perfect military form as Victor drooled on the broken chunks of brick around his cheek, bloody gums wrapped around their jagged edges. Unable to escape, Victor sobbed violently on his side. This couldn’t be the same blogger that belonged to Sherlock. That one looked meek always at Sherlock’s flank in his hideously plain jumpers. This monster was unreal. Society had nightmares of men of this type. He would’ve thought he was dreaming if it weren’t for the pain._

_“Ple-”_

_John pressed the front of his trainer into the back of Victor’s head and brought his mouth closer against the grating brick. The excruciating pain pulled bile up into his throat. Victor vomited over the brick and choked on the remnants. John watched him struggle to cough. When he grew tired of watching the bastard thrash, he pulled his mouth off the brick and held him by the back of his shirt to let him spit up all that he could. Strings of saliva clung to Victor’s lips. John threw him into the wall and pressed the end of his gun under his chin. Victor wailed when he realized he couldn’t even hold his weight up on his own two legs John had broken his knees so badly._

_“There is nothing I want more than to kill you,” John snarled between his gnashed teeth. He could practically hear Victor’s pulse racing._

_“Do it, please,” Victor wept. Snot dribbled down to his lips._

_“Death is mercy you’ll never get from me.” John replaced his gun. “Don’t let me catch you in London again. I will remove your fingers bone by bone if I even catch wind of you skulking around here.”_

_John tightened his fist. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”_

****

“John!”

John’s daydream cracked at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. Remembering where he was, he sprinted out from the back alley and slammed into the panting suspect. It only took a couple of movements to subdue the woman despite the gun she attempted to withdraw from her blazer. John pushed it out of the way and sat up to watch Sherlock jogging over with Lestrade in tow.

“Well done, John!”

John glared up at him. “You didn’t tell me it was a bloody woman!”

Sherlock shrugged. “What does it matter? She’s still a criminal.”

“I’ve got a concussion,” the woman cried.

“Shut up,” the two of them answered grumpily. Lestrade smiled to himself. _The damn fools_. DI Lestrade knelt beside John to place handcuffs on the suspect and dragged her to her feet.

“I suppose we’ll do the statement later, yeah,” Lestrade sighed, watching Sherlock stalk toward the entrance of the alley.

Back on the main road, Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, and when John approached, he smiled sunnily at him.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and handed John an envelope. “What’s this?”

“Just open it.”

John didn’t open it right away, but stared at Sherlock’s soft face, trying to read something from his somber expression. When he couldn’t gather anything from him, John opened the letter.

“Isn’t this a good thing,” John asked unsure, waving around Sherlock’s test results.

“For me, yes. Not so much for you,” Sherlock grinned.

“Why is that?”

Sherlock’s face shone. The light in his eyes was similar to when he figured out a case. Inappropriate joy. John couldn’t possibly fathom why the hell he was so cheery about bad news for him.

“Now, you’ve got no reason to _not_ fuck me.” Sherlock swearing was a rarity, but for him to speak so candidly about their sexual relationship? That was a shock to John’s system, but one he welcomed greatly.

“Why are we here?”

John ignored Sherlock’s whining and entered through the lab door. He knew that all the labs were nearly identical, but this one was definitely special. Sherlock immediately went to his regularly used microscope like it had its own gravitational pull.

“Your patience is truly enviable,” John chuckled sarcastically.

“I just revealed that I’m clear of diseases, sexually transmitted or otherwise, and rather than taking me home and fucking me raw, we’re standing in bloody _Bart’s_!”

 _That mouth today_ , John thought. Of course, John wasn’t averse to doing what Sherlock wanted, but he wanted to do this for Sherlock.

“Will you just relax,” John growled. Sherlock threw himself onto a bench stool dramatically and crossed his arms over his chest with a childish pout. That luscious lower lip jutted out defiantly. John shifted on his feet before standing at the corner of the benchtop like he did those few years ago.

“You’re fully aware of the significance of this particular lab, right?”

“Placing sentimentality in inanimate objects now?” John narrowed his gaze at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware. This is where Stamford introduced us, and you passed me your phone.”

“Right,” John nodded, “And this is where I called you a machine before you jumped.”

The memory of that moment struck Sherlock in the solar plexus, and he turned away when the lack of air in the room became too suffocating. John was so cross with him as he sat there, waiting for the final battle with Moriarty. John didn’t know what he had planned then, and if he had to feign being the machine he and so many other people thought he was, then so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time that Sherlock had to put aside parts of himself to save his own image. Staring at the opposite wall from him, Sherlock realized that he would do it again and again if it meant John and his loved ones would be safe. He had to take a second to regain his composure before he spoke to John again.

“It was long enough ago that the memory doesn’t bother me.”

“Now, I know that’s bullshit,” John started.

“I would do it again. I would hear you call me a machine time and time again if it meant you would be safe at 221B.”

John had trouble hiding the smile that pulled at his cheeks, but he glanced down at his feet to recover his thoughts for his heart was swelling so much it hurt his chest, and by God, it was distracting.

“Why are we here, John?”

“I already said yes to your proposal,” John whispered. Sherlock straightened out of his slouch. “But I wanted to give you something to show the rest of the world that we’re more than just a team.”

John reached into his inner coat pocket and held a customary velvet black box.

“Before you roll your eyes at the commonness of this gesture, I want to you to know that it’ll always be you and me against the rest of the world.” John opened the box to reveal a multi-metal ring settled in more black velvet.

Sherlock slid off the stool. “The cabbie I shot? I had that bullet casing melted down into this ring.” It was a black band with a thin steel strip running through it, simple yet lovely, just as John was. John held out his hand for Sherlock’s and slid the ring on.

“And how is it that you knew my ring size?”

“Mycroft may have helped me on that part.” Sherlock reeled in disgust. “But,” John continued, “he didn’t say anything other than congratulations.”

“It must’ve taken him a lot of effort not to make snide comments. Maybe he is learning self-control after all.”

John leaned forward to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s frown. “I’m in no rush-” Sherlock interrupted John with a nip at his lips.

“I am,” Sherlock growled. He wrapped his large pale hands around the sides of John’s face and mashed their lips together. Their kiss was a mess of saliva and teeth. He couldn’t catch his breath against John’s mouth, but it was so intoxicating, he didn’t give a damn. Sherlock shimmied his coat from his shoulders where it hung heavily at his elbows.

John pried his mouth from Sherlock’s. “What are you doing? We can’t do this here.”

Sherlock stepped back and draped his coat over the stool. “I don’t see why not,” Sherlock laughed with his arms spread. He looked delicious as always dressed in dark blue. “If it’s a matter of cleanliness, don’t worry. I sterilized the lab this morning.” John stared at him in disbelief.

“Come now, John,” Sherlock purred. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

John didn’t need any more urging. He took Sherlock’s mouth and bit at his full lower lip. He pushed Sherlock back against the benchtop, letting his lower back dig against the edge. Sherlock placed a palm behind him to steady himself. Watching John in front of him, eyes wild and dark with arousal as he rained kisses across Sherlock’s face and neck, Sherlock could only think of how lucky he was at that very moment for the way things turned out with his life. He had never guessed, never even imagined being in this situation with someone he actually liked sober. This man, this wild man that smelled of gun oil and Tesco soap…

This man who healed and treated people with the same hands he bloodied with criminals.

This man that had once despised him for the things he’s said and done, and now stares into his eyes like he was made of starlight.

Sherlock didn’t care for the absurdity of romance; he’d always managed the sex easily. Just actions of the Transport. But this was different. There was unfamiliar sentimentality attached to all this that made him blush, made him feel weak. Sherlock was quick to fall to John’s feet to satisfy the other man. Anything for him. Anything to repay him for the pain he subjected him to and for the pain he caused others on his behalf.

Sherlock smiled to himself. He wondered what Victor looked like after John was done with him.

Maybe he’d ask Lestrade…

“Stop it, Sherlock,” John whispered into his ear. Arousal jolted through his spine.

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed distractedly

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, stop, because I’m going to finger you until you’re ready for my cock.” The thoughts in Sherlock’s head ground to a halt. Did John say… Yes. It’s what he’s been waiting to hear.

John’s hands were impatient as they undid Sherlock’s belt and trousers. Wanting nothing more than to feel Sherlock’s hot flesh, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s firm length and tugged. Sherlock threw his head back at the pleasure. His own hands rushed to get out of his shirt. God, why did he have so many buttons? Sherlock’s shirt fell open, nipples stiffening at the cold air of the lab despite the red flush across his heated chest. John bent forward to press his mouth hotly to Sherlock’s ribcage, kissing and licking his way up to lap at the hardened buds of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock leaned into John’s tongue. His heart was hammering against his chest like it did during chases or when he did just a tad too much cocaine. It was bloody fantastic. The feel of John’s hands running over his skin, pushing, pulling as Sherlock was tugged away from the benchtop and flipped onto his stomach. Alarms went off in his head. There had been too much time spent in this position in front of the wrong person. The sharp bite of panic shortened his breath to quick gasps. John’s strong hand splayed across the pale expanse of Sherlock’s back underneath the sagging material of his dress shirt. The cold fear in his chest dissipated as soon as John’s warm hand pressed against his skin. John was nothing like the previous man. He trusted him like no other.

John tugged Sherlock’s trousers roughly only to find that Sherlock wasn’t wearing any pants. He gave Sherlock’s perfectly round cheek a slap.

“Arrogant bastard, you knew we’d be doing this.” Sherlock teasingly swayed his reddened arse in front of John.

“How could you say no?” John bent forward and kissed the raised handprint. Sherlock’s skin prickled at the sweetness of John’s mouth. John trailed his lips down Sherlock’s arse, flicking his tongue out to tease at the warm skin and crouching down to be level with that delectable pale arse. As John neared his tight puckered heat, Sherlock’s back arched and his breaths came faster. Pleasure jolted through his body once John’s lips made gentle contact. A high-pitched whine escaped his tightened lips as John’s tongue flicked out. It felt absolutely filthy, defiling Sherlock like this, but John wouldn’t have it any other way with Sherlock trembling against him. John flattened his tongue against Sherlock’s arsehole, dragging it long and slow. John tightened a hand on Sherlock’s hip to keep him still. Sweat dotted Sherlock’s hairline. John dipped the tip of his tongue into the ring of muscle. Sherlock tensed.

“John,” Sherlock growled through his teeth. John paused his tongue. “Would you hurry up?”

John smirked against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and kissed the man’s pucker like it were his mouth, pressing his tongue in and swirling around the ring wetly. The sounds coming out of Sherlock’s mouth were going straight to John’s cock. He couldn’t tease him much longer.

John brought his other hand up to squeeze at the taller man’s firm cheek, pressing his thumb in beside his tongue. The sharp intake of air from Sherlock only made John want to go faster. John replaced his tongue with his thumb. Sherlock whined from the burn of John’s thick digit.

Sherlock reached back in search of John’s solid hand on his hip. He was feeling lightheaded from the pleasure and needed the reassurance that he was still here on earth with the man he loved. John’s fingers interlaced with his. Even though Sherlock struggled to keep his balance on one arm while John thrust his fingers into Sherlock’s arse, Sherlock memorized the ridges of John’s calloused trigger finger against his skin and inside him and the way John chuckled to himself when Sherlock told him that he had a bottle of lube in the pocket of his coat.

When John finally removed all three of his fingers, the emptiness he felt almost overwhelmed him, and the sadness he long fought to keep away threatened to overtake him again; but John, perfect as he was, peppered Sherlock’s sweaty back with kisses, tracing his sides with loving hands.

“Are you ready, Sherlock,” John whispered hotly in his ear. Sherlock nodded hastily. John turned Sherlock’s face toward him and kissed him messily. The way Sherlock looked, reddened lips and desperate eyes meeting his over his shoulder, had him feeling like he was back in Afghanistan: blood rushing through his ears and an itch he couldn’t scratch until he was back in the barracks. The adrenaline of war would course through his veins well into camp, and the only thing he could think of to curb it was to spend the evening between someone’s legs. Each person would look at him the way Sherlock looked at him at that moment.

Sherlock was the only one he cared to see again.

John caressed that gorgeous face and lined his cock up with Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock mouthed “please,” and it was everything he needed to hear before pushing in. Sherlock’s hands gripped the edge of the workbench so roughly his knuckles popped. A red flush painted his sharp cheeks and his chest. John bottomed out and let the both of them get adjusted. John pulled out slowly, leaving just his head, and reentered faster. He let Sherlock’s gasps and murmured pleas set the quickening pace. Sherlock was a mess of half-spoken words and breaths as John drove into him without mercy, hands gripping his hips to the point of bruising, but if he was hurting him, Sherlock made no move to mention it. John cocked his hip just so and brushed Sherlock’s prostate with every thrust. The detective was reduced to mindless babbling.

The heat in John’s gut was growing. He didn’t have that much time before his orgasm would overtake him. John reached around Sherlock’s hip and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neglected, throbbing cock. It only took three pumps of Sherlock’s member before he was clenching around John’s cock, his voice reaching an octave he never thought he could reach, and coming over John’s fist. John chased his orgasm, using Sherlock’s tight body to finish himself off. He came inside Sherlock with a shout of the detective’s name.

Sherlock leaned against the cold benchtop with John draped over his back. They caught their breath enough to separate from each other. Sherlock stood up straight with a wince.

“Too rough?” John asked with a nervous rub of his neck. Sherlock rolled his eyes with a smirk.

“Not rough enough.” Sherlock glanced down at his own half-naked body. “Can we continue this back at the flat?”

John licked his lips. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m not geriatric, John. Besides, I should be asking you that.” John did a quick body assessment and found that he felt bloody fantastic.

“I could go a few more rounds.”

Sherlock quickly tucked himself back into his trousers and replaced his coat. He was mouthwateringly attractive even looking like a disheveled shag. Without giving John time to make himself decent, Sherlock was already making his way toward the door.

“Come then, John. I want to show you what I’ve got underneath the bed.”

In the back of the cab, Sherlock’s hand in his, John was finally able to think that despite the awful things he had gone through and done, to be here with Sherlock made it all worth the pain. It took him long enough to reach this moment, so he was going to take it for all it was worth. Sherlock was his finally, and there was no one to get in the way of that.

Those razor-edged eyes were dark when Sherlock leaned into John’s ear with a devilish twist of his mouth.

“Your come is drying down my ass.”

John’s cock twitched in his jeans. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes forward. “How about a shower first?”

“Only if you’re rougher,” Sherlock growled in his ear.

John faced the other man and mashed their lips together. He pulled away when the cabbie cleared his throat.

“You’re bloody fantastic, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any continuity issues or gross typos or anything that doesn't seem right, don't hesitate to let me know! Thanks for reading, and pls leave a comment to let me know what you think!


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